"Your majesty, might I enquire as to where are you going?"

"Bored, John, just going for a stroll." William, King of the British Isles, known as Sherlock to very few - including the man calling after him in such chastising tones - nodded his head toward a narrow deer track. "Don't think we'll have to worry about lurking assassins or outlaws on the Earl's lands." He gave a mirthless laugh. "The man's villain enough on his own, others need not apply."

"Is that any way to speak of your future father-in-law?" his guardsman - and dearest, nay only, friend - asked, sounding rather scandalized. "The Earl's support was key during the Moriarty rebellion, in case you've forgotten."

Sherlock shot his friend an angry glare - the disgraced baron's name was not to be spoken of, now that he was as dead as his attempted rebellion - but John simply ignored him, continuing the stroll the king had begun. Moving ahead of him, in fact, which Sherlock could not abide. "The Earl," he snarled as he shoved his way past the shorter, solidly-built man, "is a calculating, greedy opportunist."

"Just like every other nobleman in the realm," John said placidly.

Sherlock could hear the grin in his voice but ignored it. "The only reason I'm even considering this match is because people won't stop nattering at me about my duty to produce an heir. An heir! Strewth, I'm not yet five-and-twenty, why the bloody hell do I need to be in such a rush to produce an heir?"

John's silence was eloquent, his opinions on the subject already well known to the king - and entirely opposite to his own. The soldier and his wife Mary had already produced six offspring and were expecting a seventh after only nine years of marriage, which in Sherlock's opinion more than made up for any perceived lack on his own part. But no, both John and Mary - an otherwise sensible, intelligent woman - seemed to actually believe that no man could be complete unless he had a wife and children underfoot. Even a king.

Sherlock bit back an annoyed curse. "Go back, John. Give me a half-hour to myself. We are in no danger here, and if we are, I can assure you I will take care of it." Some devilish part of his nature made him add, "I hope I won't have to threaten you into leaving."

"Well, I think we'd both find that embarrassing," John said...but his footsteps halted. "A half hour and no more," he said. "More than that and others will be wondering where you are."

Sherlock gave a snort of derision and tugged the hood of his cloak over his head. Alone had always protected him, kept him safe; why couldn't John see that?

Oh, he knew the answer, much as he disliked it: the fact that John was more than simply a guardsman, that he was a true and beloved friend, was proof that the maxim Sherlock had always lived by had long been proven wrong. Even Sir Philip of Anders was something of a friend now; although they had been at odds previously, his staunch support during the Moriarty rebellion had helped to sway others to the king's side after his reputation had been savaged by that Irish upstart.

"Pah," he muttered as he hastened his steps. Such sentimental thoughts would have his brother Mycroft scoffing in contempt. Good thing he was no longer alive to see his younger brother grown so soft-headed. Had he survived his last battle, then he would be king and therefore the one plagued by people demanding he produce an heir, while Sherlock would be free to live a life of scientific endeavor, as he'd once dreamed. Free of the burden of the crown, free to wed or not at his own leisure, free to be...well, still rather constrained by being born into royalty, true. But far less constrained than his current unhappy circumstances. This small rebellion, as his party rested before making the final push to the Earl's keep five miles hence, was as much as he would be allowed for the next fortnight, and he vowed to make the most of it.

He continued to push through the greenery, and soon found that the deer track he'd been following intersected with a wider trail, one obviously made by human traffic. He shielded his eyes and looked skyward, to judge direction, but the trees blocked his view of the sun and so he chose a direction at random. One way would lead to the river, the other to the small market town that marked the farthest boundaries of the Earl's lands. Either way he would be away from the noise and confusion of his entourage, which included a party of the Earl's own men, led by a surprisingly competent - and even more surprisingly, honest! - Sheriff. Gavin, was it? Or Geoffrey?

No matter. The problem was not that he'd been asked to add the Earl's Sheriff - Lestrade, he remembered the surname at least! - to his entourage, but that he'd been required to have an entourage in the first place. He'd wanted to do without such foolishness altogether, traveling alone with John and perhaps two or three other soldiers to act as bodyguards, but had been dissuaded by his so-called advisors. A king needed to make an impression, a grand entrance: the Earl of Magnussen needed to be subtly (or not so subtly) reminded that his daughter was being granted an extraordinary honor in being courted by the king.

She was reported to be a great beauty, Lady Janine, but he had no interest in beauty. If she'd had a reputation for scholarship, now that might be worth pursuing. But no: she was beautiful, she was an accomplished musician, she embroidered, she was sweet-tempered and modest...in a word, boring. This meeting, ostensibly a simple visit for the autumn hunt, was to allow him to see if he could stand being in the same room with the girl for more than a few minute's time - and to measure the Earl's reaction should the king not tender an offer by the fortnight's end.

Shaking his head to rid his mind of such gloomy thoughts, Sherlock continued down the rutted path, absently deducing that he'd selected the direction leading to the river, and pretended he was here entirely of his own free will.

oOo

She'd fled the bustle and noise of the day, hiding herself away by the riverside with one of her father's treasured medical treatises. This was truly her last taste of freedom, for tonight she would be married. Married unwillingly to a fat, balding man twice her age. Not that those mere physical features were the worst of it: no, it was his unpleasant nature that made him so repugnant to her, as well as the fact that he held her family's tenuous future in the palms of his sweaty, greasy hands.

She shuddered at the thought of those hands touching her, groping her as he'd tried to do only this morn. Thank Jesu her mother had found them before he'd done more than paw at her breast and force a garlicky kiss upon her unwilling lips.

"Oh Papa," Molly whispered as she she dropped her forehead to her knees in despair, "how could you die and leave us in such a state?" A tear dripped onto the cover of the precious volume, and she hastily mopped it up with the sleeve of her gown. She knew she should be more careful with her wedding dress, the one her mother had so painstakingly embroidered for the ceremony to take place only a few short hours from now, but couldn't bring herself to care.

She thought wistfully of how different things would be had her dear Papa survived the illness that had taken him from them only a month ago. In another lord's territories, she might have pled her family's cause, but the Earl was a cold, arrogant man who cared nothing for those who claimed his protection by law. His daughter was nearly as bad - a vain, spiteful woman who thought only of herself, or so Molly had heard from more than one source. In fairness she'd never encountered either of them personally, but people whose word she trusted had confirmed the rumors, sadly.

People like Sheriff Gregory Lestrade, who'd befriended their family when they'd first returned to her mother's childhood home. He, at least, was a kind and decent human being, who had mourned her father's death with them, having become a dear friend to them all. If he were not away in London, if he'd been in Fitton when Papa died, surely he would have taken them in. And if he'd asked if of her, then aye, she would have gladly married him for all the difference in their ages. But it was too late now for such fancies. Far, far too late. Even if he was due to return this night, as rumor had it, Molly had already given her word.

She would marry Culverton Smith. The merchant owned the lease on their humble cottage, and had been on their doorstep barely days after Nathaniel Hooper had been laid to rest in the churchyard. His proposal had been straightforward: if Molly wed him, he wouldn't turn her mother and two younger brothers out of the only home they'd known for the past six years. And she'd agreed, even against her mother's protests.

Tonight, she would become a bride, no matter how loathsome she might find her groom, and resolved to be a dutiful wife to him. But she would hold these few precious hours of her remaining freedom close to her, enjoy the peace and quiet, re-read some of her favorite passages...

"Paracelsus, eh? Interesting choice in reading matter."

Her head whipped up a the sound of that unfamiliar, cultured voice. She stared at the stranger standing - nay, towering - over her and scrambled to her feet even though her eyes were still drinking him in. He was tall, yes, and his voice was a deep baritone that held authority in it. He was quite handsome from what she could see of his features beneath the hood that shadowed his face. She could see a hint of dark curls falling over a high brow (denoting intelligence, part of her mind noted, as if his educated accent and recognition of her book hadn't already told her that); deep blue (green?) eyes; full, sensuous lips...her own lips parted in a gasp as she clutched her book to her chest. "My pardon, my lord, I-I did not hear your approach."

He said nothing, simply continued to study her - or was it the tome in her hands he bore such an interest in? In her nervousness and uncertainty - for one must always be uncertain where the nobility were concerned, life as one of Sir Charles' vassals had taught her that - she continued to babble. "Have, have you arrived in the company of Sheriff Lestrade?"

"I have indeed," he replied with a slight bow of his head, his courtesy helping set her somewhat at ease. "I felt the need of solitude, and by your presence here at the riverside, rather than back in the town preparing for your wedding, I deduce that you felt in need of the same."

She gaped at him anew, quickly snapping her mouth shut as he smirked down at her. Even standing she barely came to his collar, and she wondered incongruously how much she would have to stretch in order to reach his mouth with hers. Coloring slightly at the wayward cast of her thoughts, she forced herself to focus on his words instead. "How did you know 'tis my wedding day?" she asked, then exclaimed: "Oh!" before he could answer, if such were his intent. "My gown, yes? Too fine for everyday wear, of course!"

He looked at her with a wondering expression in his cat-like eyes. "Can it be? A woman with a brain in such a rustic setting?"

She bristled at his words, sensing mockery, but he held out a richly gloved hand in a placating gesture. "Nay, take no offense, my lady, for I assure you I mean none. I am simply astounded to find someone with your obvious intelligence and education here, rather than in London, where I perceive you once lived - as a child, yes? But your family suffered a reduction in fortunes and was forced to relocate...was it your father or you mother who came originally from Fitton? And did your father pass away here or in London?"

"My mother," Molly replied, feeling somewhat dizzied by the quick succession of observations and questions. "That is, my mother's people were from Fitton, and my father was taken from us by illness only last month."

"A wedding coming so quickly after a funeral generally means one of two - nay, three - things," he said. "A babe on the way - of which you show no signs - true love," his lip curled slightly, which told her his feelings on the subject, "or dire necessity."

"I will not allow my family to suffer when I am able to protect them," Molly said, rather more fiercely than she'd intended. But it was the truth, and so far this remarkable stranger had showed no signs of anger or impatience at her responses to his odd questions. Nor had he shown any signs that he might have nefarious intentions toward her. Of course, she had yet to try to escape his company, and that thought brought a hint of fear; would he stop her did she try to leave him, would she suffer the fate that far too many maids did when noblemen caught them alone and unprotected?

If he did so choose, there would be aught she might do to stop him; he wore a sheathed sword and dagger at his hip, and light armor that she could glimpse beneath the heavy cloak. Of course, he would need to use none of those against her undefended self; all he would need would be his own strength, the heaviness of his body (lean and well-formed though it was), one of those large hands slapped over her mouth to still any screams for help…

Unsure if she was warning herself against the possible danger he represented or actively hoping he might make such an attempt, Molly bit her lip and ducked her head respectfully. "I have taken far too much of your time, my lord," she murmured, plucking nervously at the fabric of her skirt. "Pray forgive me, but I must return to the town. My mother will be worried."

He moved aside, and she made as if to pass him when she felt his hand catch at her arm, halting her in her steps. Her heart beat fast in her chest, and she gasped as she turned to face him. "M-my lord?"

He peered down at her, lowering his face until they were nearly eye-to-eye. "You are marrying a man you do not love, one I deduce is much older than you. You have resigned yourself to a life of duty and misery in equal measure, in order to protect the people you do love. I find that...admirable." He said the word as if it surprised him to be admitting such a thing. "With your leave, I would very much like to kiss the bride."

She gaped up at him, shocked by so bold a request...but not at all loath to grant permission to him. His lips quirked up in a small smile as she hesitated. "I do not seek to brag, but I can promise you a pleasant experience."

She hesitated a moment longer, then nodded, well and truly throwing caution to the wind. He reached out, cupping her face in his hands, and she tilted her head as he leaned closer. When his lips met hers she gasped at how soft they felt, how warm, then gasped again as she felt the tip of his tongue against her mouth. Instinct guided her; she opened her mouth, granting him fuller access, and nearly dropped her book as dizziness overtook her. His tongue was in her mouth, so lewd and filthy, yet she enjoyed it as no proper maiden should. Indeed, it was as if his mouth had ignited a hitherto unknown fire within her: her cheeks were flushed, her eyes tightly shut and a flash of heat spread out from her belly to her chest, down her arms and legs until it was as if her entire body was aflame.

The sound of a throat being cleared somewhere behind them brought her back to reality; with a gasp, she released her hold on the stranger and stepped away from him. There was another stranger nearby, this one clearly a soldier, wearing a mildly disapproving expression on his face. "Your…" he started to say, then stopped at the fierce glare from the man Molly had just been kissing.

The newcomer cleared his throat again. "You're...wanted back at the camp," he said. Which was obviously not what he'd been about to say, but she was too mortified at having been caught kissing a strange man like a wanton strumpet to wonder at what he had intended to say. Murmuring a quick "Your pardon, my lords," she hurried back onto the path to town, raising her trailing skirts so that she might more quickly put this strange (lovely) interlude behind her.