Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the estate of Winston Graham, various publishers including but not limited to Pan Macmillan and the BBC. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction.

Author's Notes: Originally inspired by the {AU Meme: Poldark & Teacching} by princessofpoldark on Tumblr. Thank you to Nokomiss for the beta read as always. A special thank you to Shiparker for being an all-around fabulous idea-bouncer and cheerleader.

Please do not archive elsewhere without permission.

"You do know there are laws against stalking."

His cousin's voice had nearly made him jump out of his skin in the quiet of the library. Thankfully there were no students around to disturb because calling attention to what he was about was the last thing he wanted to do. Putting on his best gruff voice, Ross rounded on her, "And you should know better than to sneak up on a former soldier."

She just smiled sweetly and reached up to adjust the collar of his dark gray tweed jacket. "You could just ask her to the cinema."

"I was looking for a book," he huffed and tried to brush past her.

"In the technology section? Hardly." She followed him out of the stacks to the seating area of the busy school library. "I know Napoleon was many things, but I don't recall him being an engineer."

"What do you want from me, Verity?"

"For you to be happy, my dear."

"You don't think that I am?"

"No," she said softly with a shake of her head.

Ross moved swiftly despite having to use a cane for occasional support. Someday he'd hope to be able to go about his business without it, but today was not going to be that day. He knew he should count himself lucky that he at least still had use of his leg after the horrific injuries he'd sustained when the armored vehicle he was riding in ran over an IED. His face had healed nicely from the being hit with flying metal and glass except for the long scar on the left side of his face from the eyebrow to nearly his jaw. Afghanistan seemed like a like a lifetime ago.

Since his aspirations for a distinguished military career were cut short, he'd found himself at loose ends upon his return to Cornwall. His father was in declining health. The family estate was crumbling down around them. His girlfriend had broken up with him the last time he'd been home on leave before he was injured and had since married his cousin and they had just had their first child. Everything he ever thought his life was going to be had gone to shite.

Now he found himself on another type of battlefield, one no less civilized than the poppy fields and mountains, however the chances of being shot at or blown up were greatly reduced: instructor of world history at the Truro School. His specialty when he was studying history at Oxford was the Napoleonic Wars. He'd found his second calling in life in the classroom.

"Well, you're wrong," he groused. He absolutely hated that Verity knew him almost better than he knew himself, but it had always been that way. "I'm perfectly happy."

"Sure you are. C'mon to my office for a cup of tea. I know you have planning for the next hour or else you'd not be lurking in the stacks."

"I'm not going to ask her to anything," he said with utmost finality after he shut the door and took a seat in the obscenely organized office. There was a color and symbol system that completely escaped him. No one should be that neat and orderly. It was unnatural.

Verity set about fixing two cups of tea from the always-at-the-ready electric kettle. "She knows."

"She knows what?"

Verity smiled that knowing little smile of hers. "That you fancy her."

"I do no such thing." The words felt false even as he said them, not that it would amount to much of anything.

"You've brought your sixth form class twice without prior notice and you've been in during your planning or lunch periods most days this week."

That he was definitely guilty of doing, but it still didn't mean he was interested in the lovely Ms. Carne. "I'm a historian, Verity. I spend a lot of time in libraries doing research."

"Researching pretty gingers?" she asked laughing. "What era does she date from? Surely not the 1820s!"

"Napoleon reigned 1804 to 1814 and again in 1815; and you're not as amusing as you think you are."

"Andrew begs to differ and he finds it highly amusing you're as smitten as a kitten with the junior librarian."

He narrowed his eyes over the teacup he held to his lips. "Have I told you how much I hate you lately?"

"Ross," undeterred by his attempts to put her off, she reached across the desk to take his free hand in her warm one, "not every woman is Elizabeth. It's been nearly four years. It's time. Demelza is lovely and I think you'd really like her if you gave her half a chance."

All he could do was shake his head because every fiber of his being was railing against what his cousin was suggesting. It was impossible. "She's too young."

"She's twenty-two and you'll be thirty this January. That isn't such a difference. Remember Andrew is nearly fifteen years older than I am and we're happy."

"I said no, Verity. Leave it be." He put down the heavy ceramic mug from the British Library before it ended up smashed against the wall. Verity wouldn't appreciate that.

She scoffed at him and he could see her getting her stubborn Poldark up. "I will not."

"Are you really going to make me say it?"

"Yes. I want to hear what pathetic excuse you'll come up with this time." She sat back in her chair, one hand resting lovingly on her noticeable baby bump, and looked expectantly at him. Whatever he had to say was not going to impress her.

"No woman in her right mind wants a damaged man."

"You're more of a fool than I thought."

It was a circular argument that had lasted years and it was starting to get a little old. He knew damn well he had nothing left to offer a woman. He had seen that particular truth on Elizabeth's face when he first returned to Cornwall and she'd come to see him without Francis in tow. The look of pity in her soulful brown eyes when she saw the brace on his leg, the crutches, and newly healed red gash on his face. He vowed right then he would never be a burden to anyone.

"You don't understand," he said with a note of finality.

"No," Verity said like she was speaking to a naughty child, "you don't understand that half the women in this building would toss over their husbands to get their claws into you."

"That isn't true," Ross said in protest. Not that he paid that much attention to those around him, at least not since he got back since there were much more important things demanding his attention.

"Oh it is, believe me. I hear the talk in the staff canteen after you leave." He shook his head even as she continued, "Fine, don't believe me." Verity conceded, shocking the hell out of him. She'd been a bit like a dog with a bone when it came to him ever since they were children, she being two years older and believing it was her place to mother him. "Then let me ask a favor of you."

Ross did not like the direction this was heading. "I'll make no promises."

"Could you please give Demelza a lift home this afternoon?"

All he could do was arch a questioning eyebrow at his cousin's audacity.

"I must leave early for a doctor's appointment. She walks nearly three kilometers to and from because she doesn't know how to drive. I give her a lift when the weather is bad and it's supposed to turn nasty this afternoon."

It'd been meant as trap. He knew it. Not that Verity was very subtle about this time around. A blind man could've seen this manipulation masked as a sweet bit of do-gooding coming. "The chess group meets this afternoon so I don't know how late I'll be."

"Can't you ask George to cover for you?"

He snorted. "I'd rather die than ask a favor of him."

"Ah, well, I thought I'd ask. I'll have to let her know I'm leaving early. I hope she doesn't catch her death then." She left it right there, with a small smile before taking a sip of her tea. "How is Uncle Joshua?"

"He's getting on as well as can be expected, all things considered," Ross answered, thankful for the shift of conversation as they lapsed into more mundane topics until he had to return to prepare for his two afternoon classes.

When the rain and wind began to pelt the tall windows of his second floor classroom shortly after his Early History of Britain class started, he grumbled under his breath about meddlesome cousins who don't know how to mind their own fucking business. Thoughts of the pretty redhead kept him distracted most of the afternoon, especially thoughts of her dripping wet and her clothing clinging to her just so.

He was not going to give into Verity's attempts at match making.

He was not.

It was beneath his dignity.

Damn Verity all to hell. She knew him entirely too well. In truth since Elizabeth broke off their engagement, he hadn't had the interest in another relationship. Too much effort to only result in bitter disappointment in the end. It was better to not be bothered. Any needs he had were met with a visit to one of the local women who specialized in such matters, although he'd lost interest in meaningless evenings with tawdry women a long time ago.

This thing with the young librarian was a passing fancy because he was feeling a bit lonely.

It would go away.

He was sure of it.

"Damnit," he groused, rubbing at the bridge of his nose in a losing attempt to quell his errant thoughts. A pounding headache wasn't far behind.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Poldark?"

Sinead McHenry's question drew him away from his dark thoughts. She was one of his favorite students and his secret weapon on the chess team. Boys underestimated her because of her pretty face and he enjoyed watching her crush them with her brain. There was nothing more exciting than a smart woman. "Yes, yes, I've just got a lot on my mind," Ross answered.

"It looks like it's going to be a hell of a storm," she continued, stepping up beside him at the rain splattered windows.

The wind was really starting to whip the rain with the occasional chinking of hail against the glass. He wouldn't be surprised if there was thunder once the storm really got going. It was weather not fit for living creatures. Even the ever present seagulls had gone to ground to ride it out.

"Looks that way."

"It'll turn cold later."

"You're probably right."

Sinead used her finger to draw a star in the condensation forming on the glass. "Might even turn to snow for a bit."

Guilt was starting to gnaw at his conscience. It was a setup as plain as the day was long, he knew it in his bones, but his cousin knew his weakness, his inability to allow his fellow man, or in this case woman, suffer if he had means to help. Damnit all to fucking bloody hell. "Sinead, you're in charge for ten minutes. I've got to run an errand."

"Yes, sir," she said sweetly, but her knowing smirk told him she knew exactly what he was about. Verity was good, better than he anticipated since it was obvious she had employed his favorite student to do her dirty work. Point to her.

The object of his consternation was with a student at the reference desk going over the finer points citing images in a research paper when Ross arrived in the library, and she smiled over the boy's head when she noticed him lingering near the doorway. Ms. Carne motioned for him to give her another minute or two.

"Mr. Poldark, what can I do for you?" she asked when she came around the desk to stand near him. "I'm afraid you've exhausted our meager Napoleon resources already." She was wearing black trousers and a deep green cardigan over an off white turtleneck blouse, and he was very sorry he couldn't feast his eyes on her legs this time around. It was the one thing he most looked forward to each time he brought his class around.

"Ross, please," he insisted.

"Ross," she echoed in a soft voice that made his insides nearly turn to liquid.

"I know Verity left early today," he started, feeling rather flustered under her gaze, thinking of all the things she could do for him. He cleared his throat.

"Oh," she said, clearly puzzled. Obviously his cousin hadn't informed her of the plan.

"The weather. She asked. Didn't want you getting soaked. Said you might need a lift."

"That's very kind of you. I know you live near Sawle." A single red curl escaped her messy bun and she absently tucked it behind her ear while she spoke. "It's my late evening. I don't want to put you out."

"What time?"

"I'm off at six. I don't want to keep you."

"I'm afraid I have to insist," he said gravely.

Her brows furrowed in confusion. It was the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. "I'm sorry?"

"Verity. She told me to give you a lift. If I don't, she'll see me dead."

"Oh," Demelza said with a small laugh, "I can't allow that to happen then. Verity is much too kind for prison life."

That got a guffaw out of him. Verity might be outwardly nice, but she was made of stern stuff and would not go down easily. He learned that the hard way. "She's tougher than you think."

She sobered up with a quick nod. "I'm sure she is."

"About six then?" he asked, turning his glare on the audience of students that had gathered to watch the happenings. "I have chess so I'm here late anyway."

Demelza fidgeted with the hem of her cardigan. "Only if you're sure."

"More than sure," he said, smiling a little to show her he was sincere.

"Yes, six then. Thank you." He could've sworn she was blushing a bit when she turned back to the waiting students.

The next hour and half of his life was the longest stretch of time he had ever done in his life. Most of it was spent wishing he'd dressed with a bit more care. He really was turning into the dodgy old professor type complete with tweed jacket and rumpled oxford shirt, but then he was lucky to have clean clothing most days. And his car was in even worse shape. Hopefully she wouldn't notice.

The rest of the time he spent rehearsing potential topics of conversations he might have with Demelza. Work was definitely out. No one wanted to talk about that after just leaving the salt mines. Maybe he could ask her around the pub if the weather wasn't too nasty. There would be some sort of sporting event on the telly. Hopefully she liked football. Rugby might be asking too much, but he could dream. He'd have to ring his father to tell him he'd be home late. He made a note to remind himself to grade Sinead's next paper with extra care to get her back for knowing smirk when he dismissed practice.

"I didn't keep you waiting too long did I?" he asked, limping his way to the door that lead out to the employee car park. The last thing he wanted was to call attention to his injury. It always resulted in unwanted prying questions. Damn the weather all to hell.

"I only just got here," she said brightly while in the process of wrapping a purple striped scarf around her neck. The long brown wool coat she wore enveloped her completely, hiding her slender frame from his roving eyes. "How was practice?"

"It was good. There's a county tournament coming up in a few weeks. I think we're prepared," he said boastfully.

"I'm sure they'll do us proud."

"Do you play?"

Demelza smiled shyly. "No I don't I'm sorry to say."

"That's too bad. It's one of the oldest games in the world. The game of kings." He looked down to make sure the flap on his battered old brown leather briefcase was secure because he couldn't handle looking at her just then. She was entirely too much.

"I know. I've always wanted to learn how to play," she said.

"There's some good how-to sites online." He pushed open the door and was nearly blown back by a particularly strong gust of wind. "Shall we?"

She opened her umbrella with great difficulty and stepped out into nature's fury. "Into the breach."

Thankfully he was parked close to the building, but he was pretty sure he ended up looking like a half-drown cat after opening the door of his old black Range Rover for her and having to clear the seat of accumulated detritus before hurrying around to his side while she got in. There was nothing like autumn in Cornwall.

The drive to where Demelza lived was much quieter than he anticipated after the embarrassment of The Clash's "Rudie Can't Fail" blasting ear shatteringly loud when he started the engine. The conversation consisted mostly of her directions sprinkled with apologies for keeping him out in this kind of weather.

Just being that near her was wreaking havoc on his senses. She smelled of flowers, he had no idea what kind of flowers, just she smelled nice and he liked that. He hadn't been this aware of a woman in his presence since he first noticed Elizabeth. Maybe Caroline, but she was never really in play. This with Demelza was somehow different though and he wasn't sure what do with it yet.

"The middle one right there." Demelza's voice brought him out of his dark thoughts. "I'm afraid to say it's not much, but it's home."

He pulled to the kerb in front of a long row of terrace houses. Hers was the one with a green door, a front window full of plants, and a tattered front garden that would be in even worse shape once the storm was done with it. The street Demelza lived on was not in the nicest section of Truro by any stretch of the imagination. Whatever the school was paying junior librarians, it definitely was not enough.

"No worries," he said automatically, not wanting her to feel ashamed about the state of her home. It wasn't like Nampara was in much better shape.

"I'd ask you in…" she started to say only to trail off when a heavy gust caused the car to rock a bit.

Ross said, oddly disappointed that none of his hasty plans he'd thought of earlier were going to come to fruition, "It looks to be a bad tonight."

Demelza brushed several windblown curls from her face and such a simple act made his stomach do a flip. "I should go in and not keep you any longer."

"Yeah," he mumbled, grasping for any reason to make her stay with him another few minutes.

"Thank you again." She reached for the door handle and glanced at him, smiling. "It was very kind of you."

"Just doing Verity a favor." The words were out before he could stop them and he watched as her face fell.

"Oh."

He could only watch as she hurried from the car to the front door without a backward glance. It was only after she'd slammed the door shut that he banged his head on the steering wheel several times muttering to himself about being a stupid fucking bastard.

Matters were made even worse the next morning when he arrived to work only to find a small silver biscuit tin tied with a red ribbon bow in his mail cubby in the administration office. He'd had a restless night and three cups of strong black coffee before he'd left had done nothing to alleviate his foul mood. Unexpected gifts was just the cherry on top.

"I think someone's sweet on you, Mr. Poldark," Mrs. Choake, the office secretary, chirped, getting up from her desk to come stand at the counter. She was one of the biggest gossips at the school. "Wonder who it is?"

It was all he could do to keep from telling her to fuck off so he mumbled morning greetings and made his way to the early morning sanctuary of his classroom before reading the attached note written in a neat hand in purple ink on cheap plain cream linen paper.

Dear Ross,

Thank you again for the lift home yesterday afternoon. It was kind of you to go out of your way for me. I made chocolate dipped shortbread for you. I hope you enjoy.

Sincerely,

Demelza Carne

Ross was quite sure that Demelza will have told his cousin just how rude he was before the morning was out. Verity was never going to let him hear the end of this.

The shortbread was obscenely delicious. He did not share.

*Ex Libris (eks lee-bris) Latin – from the library (of)