A/N: One chapter today, but it is the length of two. More to come shortly...

CHAPTER 18: Arriving at Ashford

Laura tugged open the heavy brocade curtains and soft light spilled through the massive window set back in the stone wall.

Ireland.

Despite the dire straits they'd been in last time they'd traveled to Ireland – Mr. Steele with amnesia and any number of people hunting them… well, him… with murder on their minds – the beauty of the Irish countryside hadn't escaped her. Charming. Serene. A country still lost in the past, in many ways, with its long swaths of fields, farms and rolling hills unadulterated by subdivisions and suburban shopping malls. Instead, sheep freely roamed, grazing in open fields and wandering along roads.

Now, looking out across verdant lawns, past the fountain to the lake glimmering in the early morning sunlight beyond, she couldn't help comparing how their last trip to Ireland differed from this one. True, they were being hunted once more, but they weren't hiding out in stables or ducking bullets in the woods.

No, not this time.

She and Remington had endured an uncomfortable trip, stowed away in the trunk of the Earl's limo lest they be stopped by police on the way to the private airfield where the Earl's plane awaited. Only once onboard had the Earl shared the entirety of their plan for escape.

"I've a business meeting in Dublin tomorrow morning, one that has long been on my schedule should the Inspector care to verify. The flight plan shows we'll be flying directly to Dublin and so we shall. A trusted employee who has been with my family for decades will be awaiting your arrival to drive you to your final destination." Remington reached for Laura's hand.

"Would you mind if we asked where that final destination will be?" he requested. Laura and he weren't accustomed to placing their destinies in another's hands and doing so now made her anxious and him skittish.

"A family holding outside of Galway: Ashford Castle," Thomas provided. Laura's eyes narrowed slightly and her keen senses detected the man's unease even as he delivered the information with a casualness one would associate with 'He'll be dropping you at the local Holiday Inn.'

"A castle?" Remington inquired, exchanging a glance with Laura.

"You'll be introduced as my heir apparent, Lord Naas." Laura mentally rolled her eyes. Her Mr. Steele had been insufferable when playing the role of the Duke of Rutherford to be. "The staff has been told you are there recovering from a nasty fall from your polo horse while familiarizing yourself what will one day be yours."

"That fall accounting for the presence of the good doctor," Remington noted, with a glance towards Townsend who'd remained quiet.

"And the names we'll be using?" Laura wondered.

"Daniel thought that best left to yourselves to decide." Remington nodded his approval while giving Laura's hand a squeeze. The name one went by when playing role was integral to that role.

"And the real Lord Naas? He won't mind us using his title to perpetuate this ruse?" Laura asked with curiosity. An expression that could only be described as pained slashed across the Earl's face.

"The title, among others, belongs to my son," he shared in a voice filled with regret. "It is my fondest hope to one day officially confer them upon him."

"I'm sorry," Laura apologized, drawing out each word while pressing a hand to her heart. "I didn't mean—" Holding up his hand, Thomas stopped her from finishing.

"You've nothing at all to apologize for, Miss Holt. If anyone owes an apology, it is I. Had I not enlisted Remington's assistance with Haven House, none of this would have come to bear." She shook her head and held out a hand, palm up.

"You can't know that for certain," she assuaged. "Keyes has had it out for us for a long time and as for Mr. Steele," she turned to cast a smirk in that very man's direction, "He'd have found some way to get into trouble. He always does." He grinned back at her.

"Just keeping you on your toes, Laura."

"Uh-huh…"

They'd arrived at Ashford Castle in the early morning hours. As Townsend and Remington had dozed in the backseat of a vintage Rolls Royce limo, Laura had watched the night skies lift and the rising sun making the dew on the rolling green fields sparkle. Only when Mickeline – the somewhat frumpy looking older man with heavy accent – announced they were arriving at Ashford had she roused Remington and they'd watched, mesmerized, as the castle came into sight while the Rolls passed through immaculately groomed lawns.

"The heating bills alone would drive a man into the poorhouse," was Remington's only comment, even he stupefied by the size and grandeur of the building.

As the car came to a stop before the main entrance of the castle, their eyes were automatically drawn to the castle's considerable staff lined up on each side. Mickeline turned off the engine and climbed creakily from the vehicle, opening the rear door for Remington and Laura with a slight bow. Once they alighted, Townsend following behind, Mickeline turned to the staff and drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't much of a stretch for the small of stature, paunchy servant.

"The new lord and master 'as arrived," he announced with pride. "Ye will see ta their needs much as ye would ta the Earl o' Claridge 'isself." Laura watched as Remington's shoulders squared and he positively preened.

"Thank you, thank you," he recognized the applaud of the servants before ducking his head down closer to Laura's ear.

"I think I've found my true calling, Laura."

An eye roll was accompanied by her warning, "Just don't expect me to call you 'your lordship.'" He grinned widely.

"No, certainly not. No. We'll save the pet names for the bedroom, eh?"

She'd wanted to brain him but had settled for a glare, a tipped-up chin and a hearty stomp through the marbled foyer.

"Yer Lordship must be tired after 'is long journey. Would ye like me t'show ye ta yer chambers?" When Remington's puffed out chest was accompanied by a touch of a snooty air, her body twitched with irritation. At this rate, the man's head would explode… If she didn't kill him first.

"Try to remember it's only a role," she hissed at him in an undertone as Mickeline turned his attention to a portly blonde woman donned in a grey and white maid's uniform.

"Siobhan, if ye'll show the good doctor ta his room in the East Wing." The woman gave a sharp nod, then turned to Townsend.

"This way if'in ye please, sir," she addressed the man, whom with a similar nod, followed her as she led him toward a hallway on the far end of the foyer.

"If you'll follow me, Your Lordship, Your Ladyship." Mickeline ascended the ornate staircase, the pair of detectives following him while their eyes took in their surroundings. While the staircase was certainly grand, if it was the only exit from the floor above it could pose a problem should they need to flee. Two rights and they were walking down a hallway, open on one side and looking down over the foyer. A stunning view, no doubt, but not a place once wished to engage in a struggle and far too open if one were trying to escape. All that was forgotten, when Mickeline swung open a door.

"The master bedroom," he announced.

Of its own accord, Laura's jaw slackened and her lips parted in disbelief when she stepped inside and got her first glimpse of the room. This drew a grin from the ever-observant Remington.

"Close your mouth, love, lest you catch flies," he needled, a pair of fingers beneath her chin easing her mouth shut.

He was a bit bowled over himself, truth be told, the room beyond anything he could have contrived in his vivid imagination. The room was simply… grand… in every way the word could imply. Easily one-and-a-half times the size of his flat, the cream-colored coffered ceiling was inlaid with gold and four – count them – four crystal chandeliers were spaced evenly down the center of the room at twenty-foot intervals. Statuary was discretely displayed in elaborate nooks built into the walls and the hand painted mural arching above the entryway nothing short of spectacular. The far right side of the room featured a sitting area the center of room against the windowless wall stood a king-sized canopy bed on a raised dais, draped in velvet bedding.

Velvet, he mused, imaging the amusement that might be found making love upon it.

A second fireplace faced the bed from window-flanked wall and on the far end of the room stood a small dressing area for the lady of the house, furnished with and antique vanity and matching chair plus a settee.

"Very nice," Laura commended.

"Yes, very nice indeed," Remington seconded as Laura strode across the room and dropped her purse and the backpack on the bed.

"Mickeline, are there any stores close by where my husband and I can buy a few things until our luggage is located?" Laura inquired.

Leave it to Laura to worry over the practical, Remington ruminated, Rather than relax in these sumptuous surroundings. Tuning out the conversation behind him, he clasped his hands behind his back and meandered around the room, examining a piece of statuary, running his hand along the fireplace mantle in the sitting room, finally pausing at a window. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he leaned his shoulder to the wall while taking in the tranquil scenery beyond. His second wind – or was it his third? – was quickly waning, but he wouldn't admit as much to Laura which would undoubtedly inspire a scolding accompanied by numerous variations of 'I told you…', 'I tried to warn you…' and 'If you'd just listen'.

As bone numbing weariness began to set in, his thoughts took a downward turn. Ireland. The country of his birth, where he'd come into the world unloved, unwanted… unnamed. The country where he'd been shunted from one relative to the next to the next, his name changed nearly as frequently as he moved and never sure if he would be met with a heavy hand in his newest 'home'. The country he'd fled when still just a boy… the country to which he'd vowed he'd never return. Yet, here he was, in his homeland for the second time in as many years…

Here he was… still… the man without a name.

A name he'd very much like to give Laura.

Something real and true to build the foundation of their lives together on. He'd long ago—

"A penny for your thoughts," Laura said softly from behind him, while laying a hand against his upper arm. He snapped from his dour thoughts and forced a smile on his face as he turned and, sliding his arms around her waist, drew her close.

"I was just thinking this is the perfect setting to renew our acquaintance," he suggested with a waggle of his brow and pursed lips. She wasn't buying it. When he'd completely checked out of the conversation with Mickeline, her attention had been drawn to him and she'd seen the sudden downtick in his mood. But she'd let it go… for now. Pressing up on her tiptoes, she touched her lips to his and allowed them to linger for a moment, before easing back in his embrace.

"Talk to me when you don't look like you're about to collapse where you're standing," she advised. He gave a disgruntled groan but posed no argument when she hooked her arm through his and led him towards the bed. "Mickeline said he'd have tea and something light to eat sent up. Then you need to get some rest." She began to ease his jacket from his shoulders, when he swiped her hands away, catching her off guard. She'd pegged him as doleful Mr. Steele, not petulant Mr. Steele but she'd clearly misjudged.

"I'm not a child, Laura," he snapped. She scowled in return.

"Then don't act like one," she shot back. "I don't expect you to be a hundred percent, but I need you at least able to walk!" Even though, subconsciously, he realized he was being unreasonable, his jaw clamped shut and his lips thinned. Lying back on the bed, he crossed his arms, refusing to look at her.

A knock at the door is the only thing that saved him. Clipping briskly to the door, she shot him another scowl over her shoulder, then swung it open with a smile on her face.

"Dr. Townsend," she greeted.

"Now that you've had a spell to settle in," the physician – carrying a black leather bag - greeted in turn, "I'd like to see how my patient has faired, if you don't mind," he returned.

"Your timing couldn't be better, doctor," she replied, stepping back so the physician could enter. "I was just going to familiarize myself with the castle." With a sharp nod of her head to the doctor, she left the room closing the door behind her.

Mickeline seemingly materialized out of nowhere when Laura was halfway across the foyer.

"Is there somethin' ye be needin', Yer Ladyship?" Out of the corner of her eye, Laura noted a maid carrying a silver tray laden with food and a teapot on it towards the stairs.

"Actually," she drew out the word, as an idea came to mind, "I'd appreciate it if my husband could rest without interruption. Our trip was very taxing on him."

"As ye wish, Yer Ladyship. I'll inform the staff meself that 'is Lordship is not ta be disturbed. Would ye be needin' anythin' else?" She gave the question consideration. She was never very comfortable being waited on, but she suspected she could get lost in the castle for an entire afternoon. Pragmatism won out.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I was hoping I might find something to read and to make myself a cup of coffee, if you have any." Mickeline appeared horrified at the suggestion.

"Can't 'ave ye waitin' on yeself, Yer Ladyship," he rejected. "Tis our duty ta do so fer the new Lord 'n 'is lovely bride. A pleasure even, seein' no one's visited in so long." With a slight bow, he escorted her to a doorway right off the foyer. "The library, Yer Ladyship," he announced swinging open the door with a flourish. "T'was one o' the Earl o' Claridge's favorite rooms when he was a lad. Course 'e was Lord Naas back in them days. Each summer the Earl o' Claridge, 'is Countess and young Lord Naas would spend all o' July 'ere, they would."

Why should I expect anything less? she asked herself when she stepped into the imposing room. Two-stories and twice the size of the master bedroom, this room featured deeply stained oak walls, coffered ceilings of the same and floor-to-ceiling windows evenly spaced apart on one side of the room.

"I can see why His Lordship enjoyed spending time in here," she openly admired as she wandered down one wall, inspecting the large oil paintings adorning it. "It sounds as though you enjoyed those visits very much," she said with genuine warmth.

"A family wit'in the walls o' the castle brings it ta life," Mickeline agreed, "But tis a child's laughter ringin' in the hallways that brings joy." Laura nodded towards the portrait of an older woman in Regency dress before her.

"Family portraits?"

"Each Earl and Countess who 'as overseen the castle, Yer Ladyship," Mickeline offered. "Ye'll find the books ye be lookin' fer upstairs. I'll be gettin' ye that coffee, now. Can I get ye anythin' else from the kitchen, Yer Ladyship? A small repast?"

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm sure whatever was brought up will do."

Left on her own, Laura moved from painting-to-painting hoping to find what, she wasn't sure. Confirmation that her instincts were correct? If so, she didn't find it amongst those paintings. For that matter, she didn't even find a portrait of the current Earl of Claridge. With a sigh of resignation, she turned towards the staircase leading to the second floor. By the time she'd selected a book from the vast library, her temper had fizzled and she resolved to rejoin Remington in their room. She'd been keeping him safe for far too long to leave his back unguarded now.

She'd spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon tucked into a comfortable chair, her nose buried in a first edition of Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey.

Well, that had been her plan at least. In reality, by the time Remington stirred in the bed in the early afternoon, the book had been set aside some time before in favor of transcribing the notes she'd scrawled in her memo pad onto a new notepad she'd obtained from Mickeline. Not for the first time, she acknowledged she and Remington would have to have a conversation soon… very, very soon. Tomorrow, but not today, she decided with conviction, after a glance at his still too pale face as his eyes blinked open. She needed him steady on his feet first, ready for whatever lay ahead.

He tested the waters with a contrite smile. She in turn lifted her eyes heavenward with a shake of her head. What would she do with him? Rising, she crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed and to finger back the hair that had fallen over his forehead as he slept.

"Are you in a better mood?" she asked on a light note and with a smile, a testament that all was forgiven.

Despite her vow not to be a burden on the staff, she'd once again called upon them. They were in need of a few basic necessities until she could get to a store – soap, shampoo, something to wear while their clothing washed and dried… a television unless she wished for a bored Remington to drive her mad. The staff had once more been remarkably efficient, the requested items delivered within the half hour and their dirty laundry quickly whisked away when they'd emerged from the bathroom wrapped in thick terry robes. A late lunch – unrequested but much appreciated – had arrived shortly thereafter.

Remington clicked, seemingly, through the channels on the telly with no rhyme or reason. She knew better. He'd once claimed about his love for old movies…

"I find it therapeutic. I think better when I relax."

It hadn't been a line, either. Some of his best insights on cases had come when he'd appeared completely oblivious to her brainstorming.

She snorted softly, unaware she'd drawn his gaze in doing so.

When he doesn't doze off, that is, she thought to herself in a wry tone. A smile quirked at the corner of his lips, but he made no comment. Undoubtedly, given that little laugh, whatever had amused her so was about him. Sometimes, a question left unasked was the best course he acknowledged, resuming his channel surfing.

Some minutes later, her frustration boiled over. She huffed long and loud and slapped the papers down the papers she'd been holding.

"What were we thinking?!" she railed. "Norman Keyes has had it in for you since he found your passports in Vegas and what did we do?" His focused his full attention on her when she launched herself off the bed to pace. "Nothing!" She waved her hands in the air in emphasis then turned to point at him. "That's what we did! We discounted him as nothing more than annoyance! Where were the background checks? Reviews of his work? Why didn't we try to dig up something that would rid us of the man once and for all?!" Swiping her pillow and stuffing it behind his back, he sat further up.

"Well, I—"

"I'll tell you why," she continued, pointing a finger at him, "We've allowed ourselves to become complacent," she charged.

"Oh, well, I wouldn't go so far as that…" he objected cautiously.

"Oh, what would you call it?" she challenged. "When was the last time we updated our files on DesCoine or Creighton Phillips or Veckmer? For that matter, why aren't we doing routine checks on the people from your past who might come looking for revenge? We ferret out every detail we can about our suspects, why aren't we doing the same for the people who may want to put a target on our back?" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"It would seem to me those very suspects are the ones who'd like a piece of our hide," he pointed out.

"Not always, as Norman Keyes has more than adequately shown," she countered. Sighing heavily, she sat back down on the bed. "It's more than that. Keyes used Marney Denks to try to set me up. A simple background check proved she wasn't Marney Denks but it never even crossed my mind to uncover who she really is," she self-indicted as her shoulders slumped with defeat. "And I can't help feeling she has something to do with all of this."

"The grieving niece?" he speculated.

"It makes sense," she confirmed, "But even if Marney Denks and this niece are one in the same, we have no idea who she is." Sitting fully and easing closer to her, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Maybe we haven't been as vigilant as we could have been," he acknowledged with a hug, "But perhaps it is to our favor that we haven't." She turned to look at him, brows lifted with curiosity and head tilted in question.

"How is that?"

"It stands as a testament to the trust we have in one another, I think," he replied, whispering the back of his fingers along her cheek, as he spoke. They knew each other so well that she didn't need clarification.

Instead, memories trickled through her mind: Remington throwing his body on top of hers when her house exploded… His scramble to save her when she'd tumbled from a beam hundreds of feet above the ground… Him, prepared to take on a roomful of gangsters when one had dared to touch her….

So many instances across the years where his deeds attested to his commitment to keep her safe from harm.

Capturing his hand in hers, she pressed a kiss against his palms while looking up at him with soft, brown eyes.

"Yes."

One word, but one that meant the world to him. He bussed her the forehead. They'd been working hard on this type of honesty the last year, yet each time he found himself simultaneously chuffed and gobsmacked.

With a tender smile on his lips and in his eyes, he leaned in to kiss her…

Only to find a single, pointed finger nearly gouge him in the eye.

"But that doesn't mean we shouldn't make it a point to be informed," she announced. With a sour look, he lay back down and picked up the remote. No point looking for a little romance when Laura's mind was occupied with a case. She sat back down on the bed, crossed her legs and picked up another stack of paper. Perusing the notes, she tapped her finger on a line.

"Baker's in jail," she noted, aloud. "Jones and Smith were our best chance at finding out who was in charge of the first attack on you and who's giving him orders." She frowned, and continued thoughtfully, "But if Lombard's had our room searched, he'll have found my notes and—"

She stopped midsentence when a knock at the door sounded.

"Are you expecting something?" she asked, turning her head to look fully at him.

"Not I," he replied, "Although, I was just thinking a visit from a masseuse would do wonders for my recovery." A rap sounded again, leading Laura to get off the bed and walk towards the door.

"Only if that masseuse is a masseur, Mr. Steele," she replied breezily. He grinned at her back as she reached for the knob of the door. He did so enjoy the bit of possessiveness she'd share on the rare occasion.

"Yer presence be needed below stairs, Yer Lordship, Yer Ladyship."

"Is something the matter, Mickeline?" Remington asked, as he moved to the side of the bed and swung his legs down.

"No, Yer Lordship," Mickeline assured as Remington joined Laura. "Per the Earl o' Claridge's instructions, Terrence O'Reilly – that bein' Ashford Castle's principal chauffer, assistant mechanic and associate senior transportation captain, 'ere ta serve ye – drove ta Dublin today, 'e did, ta collect this missive from 'is Lordship," Mickeline informed the couple while offering a thick, sealed white envelope to Remington. "'is Lordship said it will explain everythin' fer ye." Laura and Remington exchanged a look, but otherwise held his silence.

"Give us a few minutes to freshen up and we'll be down," Laura answered on behalf of both.

"Yes, Yer Ladyship." With a slight bow, Mickeline closed the door behind himself.

"Shall we have a look, then?" Remington suggested, sliding his finger beneath the flap of the envelope and opening it. Removing the folded papers and opening them, his eyes widened in surprise. He handed her a banded stack of currency and a business card.

Dear Remington and Laura,
Given the haste of your departure, my dearest Catherine reminded you will need certain essentials to get you through the days ahead. To that end, I've provided Mickeline his instructions.
You will find my solicitor's card enclosed within to afford us some privacy from the good Inspector's prying eyes. If you would provide Smithers the names you have selected, Daniel will assure the documents you need are awaiting you in Cork a week hence.
Should you need anything else - anything at all - you need only contact Smithers and the arrangements will be made.
Be safe and remember: All that matters at the end of day is life and love.
Yours,
Thomas

"Two-thousand pounds," she informed him, having thumbed through the bills while he read.

"Do we accept it?" he questioned. While he was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, her pride would demand they pay their own way. And, in truth, that was her initial impulse: To decline and insist a quick trip to a local store would be more than sufficient. Then the detective - and once math major - assessed their current situation analytically: She and Remington had only a couple of hundred pounds between them and they would need to use it sparingly given using their credit cards would quickly alert the police to where the purchase was made… a lesson they'd learned the hard way.

"I don't see where we have a choice," she replied on a sigh and with a reluctant lift and drop of a shoulder. "We'll just keep track of what we spend and hand it all off to Mildred to sort out when we get back to LA."

The remainder of the afternoon sped by, Mickeline having gone above and beyond. The large drawing room to which they'd been shown was stuffed with racks and every surface in the room had a selection of items from shampoos to razors to perfumes and colognes. Laura fingered soft wools and cashmere and buttery leathers, shuddering at the thought to the bottom line once this purchase was made. But, as she'd said to him upstairs, there was little choice.

"What the hell," she muttered the oath of resignation to herself. They may as well enjoy the experience.

An experience that had turned out to be an unexpectedly intimate one. While Laura had given her input on many of the suits in Remington's closet, he'd never had the luxury of doing the same for her, but she'd opened the door to just that when he'd asked her opinion on a cadet blue suit he was trying on.

Her eyes flickered in his direction then her attention fully turned to him. Without a word she perused the racks of suits that had brought for him to select from, finally pulling out two suits that met her refined tastes: A midnight blue pinstripe and a charcoal grey. If they just happened to make his baby blues all the more blue? Purely coincidence.

He'd taken her advice, stepping behind a pair of privacy screens set up into makeshift dressing rooms for each of them. When he emerged, she'd vanished, presumably behind the other set of screens. He browsed the array of cufflinks, finally choosing a pair that met his standards. While affixing them in his cuffs, she stepped out behind the screens.

He whistled low.

"Laura, you're absolutely stunning." She smiled at him pleased, then looked down at the dress smoothing her hands over the material. The deep red, long sleeved, one piece business dress melded to her soft curves buttoning up the center along a scalloped white placket and closing with large black buttons.

"I was thinking it might be a bit much," she admitted, with a critical appraisal.

"Nonsense," he dismissed approaching her. "You're the epitome of the modern day business woman. Although…"

"'Although' what?" she questioned as he wandered away. He returned carrying a wide-brimmed white hat accented with a red ribbon at the brim.

"The picture of elegance," he murmured. With a tilt of her head, she studied herself in the mirror.

"I do like it," she finally agreed, with a final turn this way, then that. Then in an undertone reminded, "But it's hardly suitable for Judy Peppler." He stepped behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist, peering at their reflections.

"It seems to me we have not only Bob and Judy Peppler to consider, but Peter and Regina Joshua as well." She squinted her eyes at his image.

"Peter and Regina Joshua?"

"Charades. Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn, Universal Pictures 1963. Grant plays—"

"I know which movie, Mr. Steele," she returned in a low voice, "I ought to given how many times I've watched it with you. Why those names?"

"They are perfectly acceptable British names, suitable for our role as Lord Naas and his wife." He leaned down and rested his lips near her ear. "If I can't play Bogart to your Bergman, then Grant to your Hepburn it will have to be," he murmured. A slow smile lifted her lips. She should have known: The man was nothing if not a romantic at heart… and it explained why he was so enamored with the Hepburnish dress she was currently wearing.

"Alright," she acquiesced.

The impromptu personalized shopping spree was interspersed, from there forward, with approving nods, noses crinkled with disapproval, open suggestions and a good deal of flirting. It didn't escape her notice when he selected a deep red tie and pocket square to go with the midnight blue suit… and just happened to be the perfect complement to the red dress. It was a habit he'd picked up in the last year, coordinating his outfits to hers. So, as she was inclined to do every once in a rare while, she decided to both let him know she'd caught on (long ago) and she'd play, within reason by choosing a suit and accessories that complemented the steel gray, double-breasted, three-piece suit he'd finally settled on.

His smile and soft eyes had been worth it.

She shooed him back to the room when it came time for her to decide on undergarments and slips, after he'd held up a slinky little red silk and lace chemise with matching silk Kimono dressing robe.

"Your health, Mr. Joshua," she drawled imperiously then pointed to the door. "Out." His face fell and he groaned his disappointment, but nonetheless had left the room without further complaint, leaving a pair of concerned brown eyes following him. He wasn't a man who gave up so easily and she had to wonder if it was due to the lingering effects of all the activity over the course of the last thirty-six hours.

Of course, her Mr. Steele was often a man with an ulterior motive, so his easy acceptance could be nothing more than a case of not wishing to press his luck if hoped to indulge in similar activities in the future.

When she arrived in their room and found him putting away what had thus far been delivered to the room, requiring no alterations, it seemed she had her answer.

"I wasn't sure what you wished to do with our Peppler attire," he informed her with a pointed look to a small selection of clothing lying on the bed. She mulled the options.

"I'll have Mickeline pick us up a second backpack," she decided. "We can't very well lug a suitcase around if we have to go on the run." She moved the designated clothing to a dresser. "This will do for now." Opening a drawer, she began folding the clothing neatly and lying it within. "I'll finish this," she offered. "You need to rest."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he brushed off with an annoyed edge to his words. She lifted her eyes heavenward. Sir Surly was considering an encore performance, but she wasn't interested.

"Far be it from me to stop you," she answered, forcing a light note to her tone. "Mickeline was having dinner sent up. Would you rather us go downstairs?" In the closet, he openly grimaced with remorse. Left too long alone with his thoughts, his mood had soured again and he was taking it out on her. A bit of fence mending was due.

"When I can have time alone with you?" A smile played on her lips. She understood the unspoken apology.

"Be careful what you ask for, Mr. Steele," she teased, folding the kimono and chemise he'd admired and secreting them between a stack of clothing. "You may get sick of me." Closing the drawer and turning around she nearly ran smack into him.

"Oh!" she gasped her surprise, as with a charming little smile, he eased his arms around her waist. Damn. The man could still sneak up on her occasion.

"Never," he vowed, leaning in for a kiss.

"Never? That's quite the proclamation," she commented lightly when his lips left hers to trail along her jaw and neck.

"Mmm hmmm." The hum was his only reply, absorbed as he was by the feel of her flesh beneath his lips and the way one hand slipped into his hair while the other caressed his arm and shoulder. His reaction to her touch was as immediate and visceral and if the way she pressed her body closer to his was any indication, she was equally affected. He wasn't wrong and it took all of her considerable will to slide her hands between their bodies, placing distance between them.

"Let's find something to watch on T.V.," she suggested in a breathy voice. He nodded his head slowly, somberly, in agreement. Deny it aloud he might, but what the heart and mind most desired his body simply was not up to this evening.

They'd watched Mrs. Miniver (Greer Garson, Walter Pidgeon, MGM, 1942), the irony lost on neither of them given their recent stay in the bomb shelter.

"A decent rendition I've always though of the trials London faced during WWII," Remington shared. "It won three Oscars, you know. Well deserved if you ask me."

"I can't imagine taking cover in a bomb shelter night-after-night for months on end, when only a few inches makes the difference between whether you live or die," Laura contemplated aloud.

"Mmmm, yes. Can't say I regret not having seen that particular part of history in the making," he agreed.

Dinner had arrived shortly after the movie ended and was, much like that morning, followed by Townsend's appearance. After a thorough examination, Townsend removed a pair of small glass vials and syringe from his bag. Remington immediately waved a hand.

"No pain medication," he insisted, emphatically.

"Mr. Steele, we had this very conversation this morning, did we not?" Townsend cajoled. "It will take your body all the longer to fully heal if it is continually guarding itself from further pain or discomfort."

"I've felt worse after going a round in the ring," Remington persisted, stubbornly. With a shake of his head, Townsend dropped one of the vials into his bag, then removed the cap from the syringe.

"No," Remington said the simple word firmly.

Townsend swiveled his head to look to Laura for assistance. She held up both of her hands, palms out.

"Don't look at me," she protested with amusement threading her words, "I've never been able to get him to do anything he doesn't wish to do." Remington pursed his lips in a kissing motion in her direction. Townsend returned his gaze to his patient sighing with palpable exasperation at the look of determination on Remington's face. "Luckily, I'd anticipated you wouldn't remain a cooperative patient very long." Opening his bag, he removed a bottle and handed it to Laura. "Liniment. It may help with the discomfort."

"Thank you," she addressed Townsend, then deadpanned, "I'm sure Fergus will put it to good use."

"Fergus?" Remington asked, sitting up a little straighter

"Fergus," she confirmed. Townsend's gaze moved between the pair as they spoke.

"And who might Fergus be?" She held up a hand, palm up.

"The village butcher, actually." Two pairs of quizzical eyes fell upon her, Remington and Townsend's.

"Why on earth would the village butcher put my liniment to good use?" Remington asked, baffled.

"Because he moonlights as a masseuse," she replied in a tone that suggested he should have known.

"A butcher that moonlights as a masseuse?" he questioned, with disbelief. Laura held up her hands, palms forward and wiggled her fingers.

"With big beefy hands," she confirmed, battling off a smile when he swallowed hard. "Mickeline said he really gets into those muscles…" She mimicked an action similar to kneading dough "…working out all the knots and kinks." She regarded the bottle of liniment in her hands and added, seemingly pleased with herself for thinking of it, "I'd imagine he can work this really deep just like…" she snapped her fingers "that." Remington licked at his lips nervously while Townsends's face flushed from the effort not to laugh. "I'll just go let him know we're ready for him." Turning on her heel, she strode towards the bedroom door.

"No need to put yourself to any trouble, Laura," Remington tried weakly.

"It's no trouble at all," she assured, swinging open the door, then indicating someone to come in. A large big, burly man who was as round as he was tall lumbered into the room. Townsend barked a laugh then attempted to cover it with a fit of coughing.

"Sorry, sorry. Catch in my throat," he apologized to the room.

"Fergus, this is your client," Laura announced. The man followed her as she walked to the bed. "My husband, Peter Joshua." Fergus gave a slight bow.

"'Tis my pleasure to be o' assistance ta ye, Yer Lordship, a true pleasure, indeed." Usually one to preen under the title, Remington was too focused on the man's massive hands to do so now. He licked those lips again.

"Uh, I don't think that'll be necessary this evening," he said with a trace of desperation to his tone, "The good doctor here was just about to give me a muscle relaxant that should do the job just fine." Townsend burst out into another coughing fit.

"Sorry," he coughed, "Sorry." Laura squelched her own smile and instead tilted her head and looked at Remington with concern.

"Are you sure? You were just saying—"

"'We all go a little mad sometimes,' Mrs. Joshua," he insisted, "Psycho, Anthony Perkins, Vera Miles and Janet Leigh, Paramount, 1960. Merely a moment of petulance, I assure you." She feigned uncertainty.

"If you're sure…"

"Another night, my good man," he dismissed Fergus with a note of joviality. "Doctor knows best and all."

"Yes, sir, Yer Lordship," Fergus replied eagerly, with a small bow at the waist again. "Should you ever be needin' help, I'm proud ta be at yer service, Yer Lordship."

"Appreciate it," Remington returned.

"I'll walk you out," Laura volunteered. Rubbing his chin, Remington watched her retreating back, suspicious she'd just put one past him, but unwilling to make the charge lest Fergus return.

"Ow!" he exclaimed the rejoinder. His eyes flew to the stinging arm just in time to see Townsend pull back on the needle. "A bit of warning, next time?" he groused, rubbing the offended skin as his eyes shifted back towards the door to find Laura gone.

"Swiftness seemed the best course in this case," came Townsend's amused reply. "I hope I am not overstepping my bounds, but your wife is quite a woman," he complimented.

"Mmmm, she is that," Remington returned, thoughtfully, his gaze still on the door.

"A sharp one," Townsend continued. Remington chuckled and turned towards the doctor with a wide grin on his face.

"Caught that, did you?" he remarked, proudly. "Part of her charm, I assure you. Haven't put one past her yet."

"A bit of advice from a groom of thirty-one years?" Townsend requested, then didn't wait for an answer before continuing, "I've found the direct approach works best. If you're hoping for a massage, simply ask." Remington crossed his arms, chuckling and smiling wider.

"Where would the fun be in that?" This time, Townsend's laugh joined his as Laura reentered the room.

"Well, the two of you seem to be enjoying yourselves," she noted. "Care to share?"

"The brotherhood is strong, Laura," came Remington's quick reply. She openly rolled her eyes.

"How many more times do you intend to use that line?" He lifted his brows at her, eyes twinkling with humor.

"Until it annoys you, I suppose." A helpless laugh bubbled past her lips. She'd never give him the satisfaction. She exchanged places with Townsend, sitting next to Remington when the doctor collected his bag and stood.

"If you should change your mind on the pain medication, you need only send someone to get me," Townsend informed the couple. "Elsewise, I will see you in the morning." Laura began to rise to escort him to the door, but he waved her down. "I'll show myself out."

The rest of the evening had been relatively serene. As he'd showered, she'd managed to find a radio – with Mickeline's help – and a half dozen candles. When he emerged, a bit unsteady on his feet, he found the large bed swathed in candlelight, a fire burning in the fireplace directly across the bed, and the room otherwise unlit while the radio played lowed in the background. The look on his face said he was beyond touched, but when she'd directed him to lay on his stomach then had begun to massage his tight shoulders, he'd been absolute putty in her hands. Slowly, as she worked her way downwards, those tight muscles relaxed one-by-one. With a heavy sigh, he'd fallen fast asleep by the time she'd reached his lower back.

She'd spent the remainder of the evening curled up with her notes, reviewing them, scribbling new thoughts. By the time she put the lists away, she'd resolved the time had come to share with the man what she'd discovered as she'd searched Daniel's room as well as her suspicions about the Earl. The timing might not be ideal, but time was no longer a luxury. They'd have a limited number of days here in Ireland to accomplish what she hoped they would, before – Murphy or no Murphy – they'd have to risk a return to London.

She lay a gentle hand on his back when he shifted restlessly and muttered an incoherent something. A pair of eyes, made all the bluer by the bloodshot whites surrounding them, popped open and his heart pounded as her touch pulled him from his dreams. Movement hampered by sleep and medication, it took some strength of mind to start pressing himself upwards, eyes already scanning the room for trouble.

"Go back to sleep," she assured him in a soft voice, "Everything's fine."

With a groan, he sank back down on the soft bed and closed his eyes, as Laura climbed out of bed to doublecheck she'd put out all the candles earlier then turned out the only lamp she'd lit. Slipping beneath the covers when she joined him this time, she'd barely stretched out on her side, before he melded himself around her backside and gathered her in his embrace. She wasn't surprised. He was, after all, a man who found extraordinary comfort in touch and in times of turmoil or uncertainty, he sought the peace of her steady presence.

Which was another reason their talk was all the more pressing: She needed to find out what was on his mind. She couldn't have him distracted, not now. Gathering his hands in hers, she pressed a kiss to his knuckles, then tucked their joined hands together.

He'd spent a restless night, arm tightening around her now and then, mumbling occasionally, only one world clear: 'ma'am'. It had meant little sleep for her and when she'd finally climbed out of bed, she'd stumbled downstairs in search of coffee. It was only when she'd firmly insisted, that she'd carried the tray with a pot of coffee and a pot of tea, along with a pair of mugs, up the stairs, although the promise that breakfast would soon be up followed her.

Now, looking out over the landscaping to the lake beyond, she sipped on her cup of coffee as she heard rustling in the bed across the room. She waited, knowing he would come to her… which, of course, he did, easing an arm around her waist from behind and pressing his check against the side of her head.

"Couldn't sleep?" he murmured near her ear.

"No," she admitted candidly, although she didn't tell him he was a large part of the reason why.

"Something on your mind?" he speculated. She nodded her head slowly, then turned in his one-armed embrace and tipped back her chin to look up with him with a pair of somber brown eyes.

"We need to talk."

It took only a glance at her twitching brow and he knew, whatever was on her mind, wasn't good…