Hey y'all - Basically, every time I re-watch 01x05, I can't help but wonder about the kind of reaction we would have had from Ross (all cute and protective) had he known that Demelza/Verity did get caught up in the riots. I kept thinking about and then somehow it transitioned into this.

Be warned - there is angst and feels aplenty.

Depends on what you guys think of this, I may post more. I'm writing a second half :)

Show me hope is watertight,
An anchor for these lonely nights -
'cause this sinking ship has land in sight,
Until all is lost as one.

Even love gets cold at night,
So turn the other cheek with your lips sealed tight
And winter hold your breath tonight,
Until all is lost as one.

If only time was paper thin,
Not these four walls that keep us in -
This sleepless dream we're drowning in,
Until all is lost as one

––'Lost As One' - Brother and Bones

It should have been an ordinary market day.

Mistress Demelza Poldark of Nampara had taken arrived in Sawle for supplies she needed for supper, having decided on good, honest fish pie, grateful that she no longer had to barter tooth and nail with the local fishermen for an earnest price, since they now all knew her. She wondered amongst the stalls, market stall owners yelled and hollered with regards to their wares, and servants hurried about their daily collection of supplies. A girl much like herself, even down to the fiery colour of her hair and the deep shade of her cloak, caught her eye most. Evidently a kitchen maid as Demelza had been, the girl looked content and determined in her stride and her battering, much as Demelza had grown to be, prior to her marriage, all thanks to the confidence that Ross had planted within her. The thought stirred her, causing her feet to slow even further, as the the reality of her circumstances and, frankly, unbelievable luck, washed over her. With an unchecked smile, Demelza found her thoughts very rapidly digressing toward shameless mental appreciation of Ross Poldark, and all he had done for her. This kindness, his passion, his honesty, his tenderness… all were so unexpected and utterly immeasurable in comparison to anything Demelza had known in her previous life in Illogan with her father.

"Ross," she had stuttered out the previous night, after he had taken her tenderly in their bed, as they lay side by side and nose to nose. (Whenever they lay so close, his eyes locked on hers in such a way, she was frequently caught unawares, as she had stopped listening to his deep, peaceful voice for want of attempting to memorise the colour of his eyes.) She had felt so overcome in that moment, so desperate to make him understand, that the words seemed to fly from her mouth without censorship or consideration. "'ee must know 'ow grateful I be…for all 'ee 'ave given me." She referred to the love and sweetness her bestowed on her in the intimate privacy of their home, of course, but also, at the very base, for taking her in those years ago; for his intoxicating kindness, all along.

"I know, my love," he had hushed back, before his lips made tender contact with the curve where her cheek met her nose. She had attempted to protest, about to inform him that no, he didn't understand the level at which she was grateful. He didn't know what it was like to be saved from an abusive father. He didn't know the relief of finally being taught that you have value, that you matter… Neither did he yet know of their child that grew within her; something that left her breathless with gratitude and adoration for which she had not a word in her mind to describe.

"Oh, dearest Demelza––wh––hey. Hey, shh, shh, now. Why the tears?!" he'd asked next, aghast and concerned by the way tears had suddenly began falling silently past her temples and into her hair. Her eyes had remained on his face where they lay, though the salt water blurred his striking features. He had taken her into his hold, instantly, forever determined to assure her with his physical affection.

"I be unknown to love like this," is all she replied, as she had attempted, with embarrassment, to hide her tears that would not heed in the crook of his bare neck. She found her fingers gripping tightly to his muscular back of their own accord, with such vigour she may have left marks, as she desperately tried to burrow herself into his warmth. He was her anchor, her certainty, her saviour…and thanks to her lack of words, she noted, he would never really know it.

"Nor I," he'd sighed, sounding utterly content as his arms curled around her back with equal enthusiasm. "Oh, Demelza, nor I."

Demelza blinked away the memory, as she felt the familiar lump of tears begin to clog her throat, quickly picking her pace and setting her mind back on track. Ross hadn't known she had walked to town today, since he himself was off on business at the mine. She had forgotten to tell him of her need to restock the larder, and, not being the idle type, she had instead decided she may as well do so herself.

Muslin for the cheese, that's what she needed next. On her walk, she passed the dressmakers, the irresistible call of shining, fancy fabrics causing her feet to slow again. As she gazed at the beautiful shade of blue, like the ocean on a summers day, that decorated the window, memories of Ross' mother's dress bouncing around her consciousness.

With her feet crunching against the stones under her boots, Demelza was only awoken from her daydreaming when the most dreadful of sounds––bloodcurdling screams began to echo from the other end of the street. Within a moment, bodies began chasing past, unintelligible shouts and chaos crashing around her like waves onto Hendrawna beach in winter. Knocked against the glass of the dressmakers, Demelza turned toward the noise, unable to breathe as she caught sight of pick-axes and fire torches, beginning to smash in gentlefolk shop windows, raiding carriages and looting food. Within moments, she grabbed at her gown to lift it unceremoniously high, and, muted by panic, set off running.

– x –

"Ross," greeted Francis he entered The Red Lion, finding his raven-haired cousin sat amongst his band of brothers in one corner. Predictable, on so many levels, was Ross Poldark.

"Francis." He offered his cousin his second brandy from where it sat on the table. "How fairs business at Trenwith?"

"Mediocre, at best," he admitted with an absentminded, almost accepting shrug.

Ross gave him an apologetic smile, settling back to his papers. "Carnmore?" he questioned, subtly glancing over the parchment.

"Attempting to create a smelting company to compete with that of the Warleggon's. That way, we can bid for our own copper, at the low price that the smelters have restricted it to, and then, once they become wise to us, the price will rise, which is ultimately good for the mines."

"You appear to have thought of this long and hard, cousin," Francis acknowledged, envy burning in his chest, though he managed to hold his tight smile.

"I like to hope so." Ross' trademark self-satisfied smirk curled the corners of his lips as he tipped his head back to swallow the remainder of his brandy.

Suddenly, there was a rumble of commotion from the street outside, causing both Poldark's to turn there head's in interest.

"What in god's name––?"

"Miners," informed a stranger as he hurried inside the open inn door and shutting out the chaos hastily. "There has been talk of riots spreading from Illogan… It seems the gossip had some truth in it."

Ross frowned at the noise that carried from the street, finding that his hands began packing his parchments away into their leather bindings. He felt his scalp prickle uncomfortably, though he couldn't place why. All he knew was he wanted to be home, wanted to see his family, wanted back to his little piece of Cornwall where all was tranquil – the chaos outside the door simply adding to his offset nerves. His mind instantly lingered briefly on the subject of his wife, a familiar calm running through him, in particular when he recalled their most intimate of when they were abed. Her eyes were always shining with such eagerness and admiration, but when he took her in their bed they burned alight with a fire of a whole different calibre. Under such a gaze, he was a man undone.

With such thoughts, he found he itched to be home and see her, unashamedly so.

"Leaving so soon, Ross?" asked George as he walked into the room, now carrying a glass of brandy.

"I'm afraid I must. I have left my wife unattended far too often this last day or two," he excused, with little thought, pushing his errant curls from his eyes.

It was then that George's expression changed, causing a ripple of unease to settle in his chest again.

"Your wife?" he asked, sounding surprised.

"Yes…" Ross trailed with trepidation. "Should that be of surprise to you, George?"

A strange expression crossed the younger man's usually smug face, as though he had suddenly realised something he should not know. "Well, yes… Only… I do believe I saw your wife not ten minutes ago down by the docks."

Like ice water to the head, Ross felt every nerve in his body jolt to attention, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as though he were caught in a static storm.

"What is that you say?"

Before Ross could launch into a full onslaught of questions, the room is startled by loud noises nearing the inn, followed by his dear friend Zacky Martin, who practically fell through the oak door.

"Ross!" he asked instantly and it is clear the man came for he, specifically. The dread within his chest rose like a deadly tide. Before the man could speak, he was on his feet and running to him. No, please don't be––

"Come, quickly!" he wheezed, breathlessly. "…it be 'ur wife!"

In that moment, Ross was sure he remembered what it was like to face an imminent end. He had confronted death many a time before, while in Virginia, but there was the one occasion on which he was granted his scar that resounded over all others. The awful, icy fear when caught unawares – he felt it now, but, somehow, despite there being no pistol in his face, the intensity had grown ten-fold. The explanation for this being simple: this was not his own mortality that was threatened – but that of his sweet, beautiful Demelza.

Oh, God––Not Demelza.

Abruptly, ignoring all gasps of concern and protest from the gentlemen behind him, Ross set off out the door and into the chaotic streets, filled with angry shouting, men charging at businesses creating sounds almost like that on the Virginian natives, the smashing of glass, the screams of women…

He felt so sick at the sound, he wheeled around again, staying to the sidelines to avoid being caught in a brawl. "Where?!" he demanded of his friend, desperation making his voice crack as he shouted over the noise, trying not to give into blind panic. "Where was she?! Why was she here?! She was not supposed to be here––"

"Tis said a woman 'hat 'ah to be 'ere down was… She be…" he trailed off, leaning against the wall where Ross stood, looking positively green.

"What?!" Ross demanded, his voice raising. "She what, Zacky?! Speak!"

"'e say she been caught up in the riotin'!" Paul shouted back quickly, his eyes filled with what may have been hints of tears and the sorrow, as a messenger who's shoulder's were weighed down with the news that would bring damnation to all the world.

Ross heard the words and, while they felt truly like a blow to the head, he was surprised to find his balance did not falter all that much. His flat palms found the solid wall where they sheltered as he braced himself against it, his chest rising and falling with an uneven rhythm that would challenge even that of asthmatic Jim Carter.

No one knew more than Ross Poldark the agony and siren call of carnal desire that was left to fester. That, combined with burning rage and frustration as the universe appeared to be laughing at you, resulted in men who behaved like beasts. While he would never touch a woman without her permission, weaker men would––and did.

Nausea rolled through his along with a cold sweat, images of a helpless Demelza trapped beneath the strength of a brutal, ape of a man burned in his minds eye and twisted his gut.

"Where?" Ross' voice was deathly low this time, which Zacky knew meant one thing. The man did have mood and shout as often as God did send rain, but lord forbid, if Ross Poldark did lose his voice, no one was safe.

"Side street, t'ward the dressmakers!"

As he set off running, fighting off those who attempted to target him for his money and clothes as he past, the rhythm of his entire body seemed to reflect his mind, as a desperate mantra took hold. Not Demelza. Please, not Demelza.

...Show me hope is watertight,
An anchor for these lonely nights -
'cause this sinking ship has land in sight,
Until all is lost as one...

She had ran, though there was no where to run. Within moments of running into the street, she found that she was not only running away from danger, but also into it, as angry miners seemed to descend on all sides. A scream lodged in her throat, silencing her from any sound, as a pair of dark eyes set upon her, burning with rage and desperation, something Demelza knew all too well from the many hungry she encountered in Illogan. Instantly, after feeling momentarily frozen under his gaze, Demelza felt the rise of panic spur her into action as she turned on her heel to flee. The thud in her ears told her she was now the mouse in a chase and she bit back a scream as he cornered her, so she had no option but to run into the dressmakers.

Instantly, she snatched at the nearest solid instrument, a discarded walking stick, and turned to strike him. However, the man was faster, grabbing the end and yanking it from her grasp.

"Stay away fr'm me, y'hear?!" she yelled, her back hitting the furthest wall as he sniggered at her.

"Or wha'?" he challenged in a thick, Cornish vernacular similar that would challenge even that of Judd. His eyes narrowed and glinted like cold flint-stone, the threat of brutality there triggering violent trembling within her bones as memories of her father's violence and tormenting flashed to the forefront of her mind. She bit down on her trembling lower lip, angry with herself for demonstrating physical fear that she could not curb.

"Or me 'usband will lynch 'ee by 'ee toes." She didn't threaten to frighten him, for she knew if he were anything like her father, it would may little difference. She did it solely to let him know she was not a simply kitchen made, as he no doubt assumed.

"Let 'im try," he smirked, grabbing her arm painfully in his hand. She gasped, kicking her feet in the hope she may catch his shins. "Be wha' it may, I'll 'ave still had his wife."

The words swelled panic in Demelza's throat as he felt her vision almost blur. No, please no. She wanted to beg him not to – the words rising in her throat like bile – but she refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, she kicked harder and harder, seeming to miss his shins each time. "Get. 'ur. Hands. Off 'a me!" Tears leaked unchecked from her eyes as she yelled and screeched in protest, only for his hand to circle around her throat and press her into the floor, silencing her cries.

"We'll see 'ee genteel 'usband try to be 'igh and mighty after 'e knows 'is wife is nothin' but a dir'y whore."

Blinding, Demelza's arms flailed, pushing at his throat to try and loosen his hold on hers. That is, until the animalistic hands grabbed at her skirts, trying to hitch them up, in which case she tried to focus on halting their assault. Sounds of her own choking filled her ears, and as her vision blurred at the edges, it became all too clear that this could be her end. Instantly, her thoughts rushed to thoughts of Ross' unborn child, who resided deep within her, completely unaware that they may both never set eyes of the man that gave them life. Sweet Ross Poldark not only created physical life within her, but he also sparked a rebirth in her life when he chose to take her in. He was her holy saviour on god's earth…and as she contemplated death, she felt the most sorrow for the fact she would not get to tell him as such…and that he'd never know of the child they created.

One of his hands dug painfully into her bare thigh, but just before the man managed to reach her most intimate anatomy, her foot finally found the weak spot, in between his legs. His grip slipped on her throat enough for her to cough and gasp for breath, hauling herself up and pushing his crumbled form back, as he groaned loudly from the pain she caused, striking the back of his neck with her foot for good measure. Hastily, desperately trying not to let her hooting cough and splutters slow her, Demelza scrambled toward the shop door, only to find it blocked with shattered wood and, just beyond, more violence and frightening looking men, their backs to her. Panicking, Demelza ran up the steps of the dressmakers, hurriedly hiding in the large cupboard filled with fabric rolls. Shutting the door on herself with a small click, she curled inward into the smallest ball possible, her eyes shut so tightly her vision danced with specks of colour. Desperately attempting to regulate her breathing, she found her almost did not breathe at all, listening for movement of the man. Suddenly, there were hesitant footsteps, and Demelza clasped a hand over her mouth, pulling fabric over her head. The silence of this environment, after seemingly constant shouts and screams of chaos from the street below, was incredibly unnerving, and Demelza found herself physically shaking all the more.

She held her breath for what must be an inhuman amount of time as the man seemed to be in too much pain and frustration to have seen where she went. She did not hear him now, and so slowly allowed herself to breath again, making no other sound. Her hands shook against her face as she imagined him coming back for her later, bringing other men with him, but she knew that, in her current state, she would only be attacked by another the minute she stepped out into the street.

Please, God, she prayed silently, a hand grasping her flat, somersaulting stomach as she curled down and closed her eyes tight. Please God, save us. Please do not leave Ross alone. Please let us live through this for him.

...Even love gets cold at night,
So turn the other cheek with your lips sealed tight
And winter hold your breath tonight,
Until all is lost as one...

He found himself muttering his wife's name name over and over, feeling the threat of tears burning in the back of his throat. As the neared the alley by the dressmakers, Ross slowed and sheltered himself from view of the alley behind the corner of the dressmakers. Instantly, his senses take in the scene before him, of a heavy-set aggressive man struggling to hold down and push up the skirts of a frantic young woman with fiery curls and a scarlet cloak…

In that moment, Ross Poldark, infamous for his temper, saw red that could rival any bull, instantly charging for the man with the entirety of his strength, (secretly knowing that if he didn't give into his fury, his would instead give into despair).

As he hands collided with the mans back, he tightened around the fabric of his shirt and hauled him backward, the man flailing back toward the opposite wall, impacting into the brick with a grunt. Ross swung instantly to throw a punch at the man, incapacitating him further, grinding his teeth as his chest burned with rage.

"In what world, sir, does such a magnitude of the word no, translate as yes?!" As the man launched toward Ross, Zacky struck him from behind with a piece of piping from the ground. Within an instant, Ross whirled on his feet to where the man's victim lay, cowering against the brick wall in the dirt. Regarding her whimpering, shaking form, Ross felt an overwhelming wash of relief, which consequently triggered a wave of guilt. The poor, innocent victim of this man's attack had fiery hair and a scarlet hemmed cloak, but her face was too thin and her eyes too small. This was not his Demelza.

Swallowing the urge to fall to his knees and weep with joy, Ross hurried to her side, holding out his hands in motion of a peace offering. The young girl, obviously a kitchen maid, was physically shaking, busy pulling her uprooted skirts back down over her legs, attempting to hold in her desperate tears. Ross felt his heart physically ache for her, seeing his beloved wife in her without hesitation.

"You're safe now," Ross offered in the softest voice he could muster, sparked into movement with the loud chaos in the street, reminding him of imminent danger. "Where are you from, child?" (Instantly, memories flashed behind his eyes of that day years previously when he had enquired to a muddy, childlike Demelza of the same question. His heart jumped and throbbed against his ribs. "Don't 'ee 'child' me, Mister!" Always so definite and strong. How brave and courageous his wife had always been.)

"Jus' a mile or so from 'ur land, Cap'n Poldark, sir," the girl replied, her voice stuttering with tears. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. She knew him. She must be very local, he realised, and his sympathy for her intensified.

"Ross!" called Zacky from the open end of the alley. "Doctor Ennis be 'eaded this way!"

Smiling kindly at the girl as he would a frightened child, before turning back to his friend hastily. "Call his attention into the dressmakers! I need to get the child inside!"

Pulling her under his arm, Ross guided her into the dressmakers, which looked as though it had been thoroughly ransacked, while Zacky took guard at the door. As the doctor hurried into the door, Ross settled the girl down amongst the fallen fabric rolls.

"What happened?" Dwight urged as he hurried inside, his eyes then falling on the shaking girl at his friends feet.

"An ape of a man, that's what happened," Ross grunted with disgust, hastily hurrying to his friends side. "He forced himself upon her," he murmured into his friend's ear so the girl wouldn't hear.

"She will need medical examination," Dwight replied in hushed tones.

"Not here." Ross hurried to the window, glancing at the state of the violence outside. "Look at them," he growled, straightening his hat. "Brawling, vandalising, and staking their claim like animals."

"Pardon I, Cap'n Poldark sur, but…" the girl started up, helped onto her feet by Doctor Ennis. "I be so very grateful fir 'ee savin' me, but… why did 'ee, sur?"

Ross turned to her with a kind smile, noting how she still shook with fear. "Twas thought at firsst you were my wife. You do bare quite a likeness."

"Demelza?" Dwight questioned, his tone one of surprise. "Demelza is here?"

Ross looked around at the ruin of the abandoned dressmakers, frowning at the damage that surrounded them. Hopefully the innocent dressmakers got out alright. "No. Not that I know of. She was at Nampara when I arose this morning and had no plans to venture out, so no doubt all sightings were in fact of…" He trailed, realising he did not know the girls name.

"Jane," the girl replied, gently. "Jane Sanderson, sur."

"Of Miss Sanderson," he finished, watching as Zacky peered out at the riots as they were beginning to disperse.

"They be beginnin' to flee - 'cuz the soldiers will be arrivin' soon, no doubt."

"We must take her to my cottage," Dwight declared with a solid tone, heading toward the door. "That is, if my horse hasn't been looted."

Ross made a disgruntled sound in his throat. "And mine."

"Look at this place," Dwight sighed as they looked around, triggering Ross to do the same once more. "It will take them a grand while to clear such a mess."

Ross drew his boot in the thick layer of sawdust the lay about the floorboards, along with fallen material rolls. "It's such a shame that men in this day and age can be hungry enough to become such animals," he sighed, almost speaking to himself as his eyes trained along the floor.

He was about to follow his friends as they made their way out the door with stealth, until an item caught his eye that sent him into a cold sweat for the second time. Discarded on the dusty floor, amongst evidence of a commotion, lay a half-tied red and white ribbon. "Some ribbon, to tie up that unruly mane." No. No, no, no. "If they don't suit, give them to Prudie." They had done. She seldom ventured about without some.

He must have made a sound that resembled choking, fate finally showed its cruel hand as he dropped to his knees to retrieve the ribbon he now realised he knew, because Dwight paused in the doorway.

"Dwight!" he called, loudly, unable to keep panic out his voice.

"What? Ross, what is it?"

Resisting a sudden urge to scream, Ross squeezed the ribbon in a tight, furious fist.

"She was here, Dwight." His voice was a whisper, as though his voice would somehow awaken the gods of fate and render his life absolute hell. "Demelza was here."

A voice. A deep, loud voice stirs Demelza from her quaking metal position from within the cupboard. Looking up from her knees, her hands once against gripped her legs painfully as she instantly froze, fear of her attacker's return sending a chill through her. She strains to hear it, trying to judge it's proximity. Sure her worst fears were going to be realise, she sent yet another inelegant, desperate prayer.

A moment later, the voice yells again, but this time it's clearer, as though just a few rooms away, and Demelza gasps a breath of disbelief, for not only did the voice yell what sounded like "Dwight!" but it also, dare she think it, sounded an awful lot like her husband.

Dwight bulked instantly, with a firm, astonished blink. "You're certain?!"

Ross bowed his head with a sorrowful moan, the ribbon almost chaffing his nerves as it rubbed against his palm. "I bought this ribbon for her – for her ridiculous mane – just after we married – from elsewhere, too! What chance of it ending up here otherwise?!"

His lungs resembled that of prey in a python's stranglehold as he staggered to his feet. Instantly, his fairer friend reached out to steady him as he decided to take action.

"Zacky!" Dwight hollered to the door. "Take the girl back to my cottage – Take my horse – from the stables to the east of Market Street! Have a care with her! She needs treatment!"

"Aye, Doc!" came Zacky's farewell, as he burrowed the young girl under his arm, a piece of piping in his other hand as a weapon, and hastily slipped out the door.

"Ross." The young doctor's voice was soft and sympathetic, as he halted his friend, who had taken to pacing the room like a caged wild animal. "Ross, pray, calm yourself. There may be a rational explanation––"

Ross raised his head from staring at his feet, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline as his tone dropped to a level of deadly serenity and quiet only a dark Poldark could fashion. "Calm myself?" His chest heaved, but drew in little air. He attempts to clear his throat, but his voice rasps and falters. "How in god's name do you suppose I do so?! Dwight––It's Demleza!––The sweet, startled fawn of a girl whom took to my home and my life and my moods without hesitation or question; who knows me better than I know myself; whom I love within the very depths of my––" He chokes on his words, feeling his eyes well up of their own accord, and so clears this throat aggressively, beginning to pace again, "––and––I never…" It is with frustration and desperation that he finds he cannot manage full sentences; the frog in his throat becoming as heavy as the weight on his heart. "I never told her! My own wife––!"

Before Ross could bolt toward the door in a fever of hysteria, the young Doctor grasped at his shoulders, securing the Dark Poldark's gaze had to meet his own. With the practice of a tamer soothing a lion, he spoke gently. "Friend, be still a moment. Consider all possibilities before you act rashly and therefore endanger yourself needlessly. Even if she were here today, is it not a good sign that she is here no longer? Perhaps she got away on first hearing or the rioters? Or, perhaps, all the more, that is not her ribbon."

Clenching his eyes shut, Ross attempted to calm his trembling physical state, while his state of mind resembled that of a frantic, rabid dog. "I should have been with her – then I would not have to speculate at all. Why was she here? I know those are her ribbons, Dwight, I am sure of it. Why did she come? I told her to be careful – not to walk alone––Oh, Demelza––"

Ross halted as his friend suddenly held up a hand, his face an instant frown of concentration.

"What? What is it?" Ross questioned frantically, inwardly growing incredibly impatient with his friend. How and why was he so calm? Did he not realise they had to find Demelza, and they had to do it now, at the risk of his very sanity?!

"Did you hear something?"

Dwight slowly and silently began moving toward the staircase to the back of the shop, his face pinched with concentration. Ross strained his ears, attempting to hear what it is his friend thought he heard. After a moment, there was a sound – a banging – a muffled voice – from above them.

"There! Again! Did you hear it?!" Dwight instantly raised his feet to the bottom step, cautiously, before calling out up the stairs, toward the origin of the noise. "Is anyone there?! We mean you no harm!"

...If only time was paper thin,
Not these four walls that keep us in...

Demelza could scarcely believe her ears. She knew that voice. She knew that voice! Oh, god bless that voice! Instantly, she opened her mouth to shout, but found at first she could not. As a child, on the verge of awaking from nightmares, she would often suffer from a similar sensation – the desire to scream out for comfort being so strong yet it remained lodged in her throat, out of fear that the demons from her dreams may in fact lie just around the corner and be awakened by her cries for help.

Hastily, she groped for the handle of the cupboard door, only for her heart to drop in her stomach when it would not open. Impatient and with a slight flush of panic, she pulled and rattled the handle, biting down a whimper as it still would not give.

"No, no, no, no!" The mutterings tumbled from her lips, reflecting the increasing frantic nature of her fingers. Straining her ears, she could no longer hear voices, triggering desperate anxiety within her, her hand coming to strike the cupboard door. "'e doesn't know I'm here," she whimpered tearfully to herself. "Oh, Judas––now I'll be stuck 'ere and tha' monster o' a man will come back for me…" She struggled as her breathing escalated drastically, though no amount of air seemed to be enough. Pain suddenly stabbed deep within her belly, and she groaned against the wooden door, her vision blurring at the edges as she struggled to breathe.

"Oh, please, no!" she sobbed, knowing instantly what such a pain meant. Instantly, she slammed her hand on the wood again, this time continuously.

"Is anyone there?! We mean you no harm!"

...This sleepless dream we're drowning in,
Until all is lost as one...

Dwight. Doctor Ennis. Kind, talented, healing Doctor Ennis…

"Demelza––This is my friend, Doctor Dwight Ennis––"

Clutching at her stomach as an unseen force continued to cause stabbing pain, tears slipped from her eyes, unchecked.

'e's here. Dwight is here. 'e can save us.

"Help! Please!" With what little strength she had left in her trembling fists, she threw them continuously against the wood, her throat gravy and sore from the attack.

Like a bloodhound drawn t'ward it's unpredictable, hidden red-haired prey, Ross heard her voice instantly and felt a magnetic pull toward it – the panicked, harsh tone of it calling to every cell within him.

Within a moment, he set off up the stairs, a-flurry with desperation.

"Demelza?!" He could barely breathe. "Demelza!"

...Wont you send me your burden and i'll be
I'll be begging to show you how mercy begun...

At the sound of his voice, calling for her, Demelza wept as her forehead came to rest against the cupboard door. "Ross! Oh, Ross! Please hel–help!"

Dwight was right behind him. "The cupboard! Here!"

Ross gulped as he took in the sight of the small cupboard, no doubt designed for storing fabric rolls, his gut wrenching at the possibilities as to how and why his wife came to hide in such a place.

"My love, are you alright? What are you––"

"––Ross, please! It 'urts, Ross! Please, help me!"

Ignoring the way it bit into his fingers, Ross instantly began trying to pry the cupboard doors apart, to no avail.

"What is it, Demelza? What hurts?" Dwight asked in a much more calm tone, as Ross frantically buzzed around the space looking for ways to open the door.

A whine of sorrow escaped Demelza's lips, knowing the source of the pain, but not wanting to say it out loud. If she did, not only would it be real, but then Ross would discover the existence of their child…just as she may have lost it.

"Demelza?" Dwight prompted gently, ignoring the animal-like grunts and stomps of his friend.

As quickly as the words formed on her lips, she lost her nerve.

"I cahn't!" she sobbed, repeatedly. "Just please ge' me out of here!"

Only blurred further by her broken voice, Ross suddenly had an idea.

"Demelza, burrow yourself the most you can into the left corner! Cover your eyes, alright?! I'm going to kick in the door."

Ignoring the pain that laced through her abdomen, Demelza did as he instructed, burrowing underneath rolls of material, wrapping her arms over her head.

Steadying himself against the top of the cupboard, Ross threw all his force behind a solid kick at a central plank in the right cupboard door. After three more solid strikes, each more aggressive than the last, the plank gave way, shattering wood inside the cupboard. Demelza flinched unintentionally at the impact, remaining cowered as her husband made quick work of the planks either side of the hole he created.

Ignoring the sawdust that billowed against his clothing, Ross instantly reached into the cupboard, his hands blinding grasping for his wife in the dark. Within moments, she was struggling against her fabric protection to meet him, only to be halted by another roll of pain that winded her. Ignoring it, she barrelled for him, the desperate physical need to feel his hard, warm body against her own so strong she felt sick with it.

She was in his arms almost instantly, as Ross let himself fall to the floor, as not even his balance could be maintained with the magnitude of relief that coursed through him. His strong fingers dug into her back as hers fisted into his coat, his lips peppering feverishly over her face, over her nose, eyes, cheeks, lips, chin… "Oh, thank heavens––oh, my love. You have no idea how glad I am to see you well––" He drew back his face to take her in, and it was only then that he noted that, in fact, she was not. Her skin was pale, lacking its usual rosy glow, and shallow; her eyes were pinched and stormy and her throat was marred with angry, red and purple bruising, the sight of which had his hands balled into fists and his chest burning with all-consuming rage.

"What in gods name?!" he exclaimed as his calloused hand gently lifted to touch the bruising. His tone dropped to icy depths he reserved for when his moods had taken a strangle hold on him. "Who did this to you, Demelza?"

She swallowed hard, flinching as the action hurt her tender throat. "An Illogan miner. He be like a rabid dog… blind wi'…rage. 'e thought me a great lady – wanted to…" she couldn't say it, "…so you would think me dir'y."

Ross went to open his mouth to begin his angry onslaught at no one in particular, when Demelza suddenly lurched forward in his arms, grasping her abdomen as nausea and a sharp pain robbed her of her breath.

"Demelza?!" Ross' tone instantly shifted to one of uncertainty and panic, instantly looking to his medical friend. "Love – what is it?"

Dwight dropped to his knees by Demelza, who was still held in his friends arms, and instantly used his hands to guide her to lay down. "What hurts, Demelza? You must tell me now if I am to help you."

Tears slipped from her eyes once again as she grasped her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shuddering with silent sobs. Her eyes darted to her husband's handsome face, tight with worry and confusion with his trademark deep 'v' between his brows. He was her kind saviour, fiercely loyal, but with such a gentle heart…and the father of her child…

The child she may have already lost… Her chin wobbled.

"I'm so sorry, Ross" she sobbed. "I should'a been braver – should'a run faster – taken more care––"

With glossy eyes, Ross knelt beside his wife, positioning her to use his lap as a pillow under her head, his gaze unusual, as it became confused and frightened. "Demelza––tell me––"

"Ahh!" she cried as a throb of pain stronger than the rest rippled through her abdomen, causing Ross to leap forward silently and grip her face in his hands. His calloused thumbs smoothed over her clenched brow with a touch as gentle as a light sea breeze, his breathing silently erratic at the sight of her.

"Ross – she's bleeding!" Dwight watched his friend pale as he took note of the little blood that had stained Demelza's relatively thin gown, around the back of her thighs.

"Good god," Ross breathed in fear, tightening his fingers around his wife's trembling, cold ones. She was so cold. "What can I do?" he enquired instantly to his friend, watching as the young doctor's hands slid his hands over his sweet wife, taking her pulse.

"Demelza, are you with child?" Dwight asked lowly, instantly ripping apart strips of the nearest roll of dressmakers fabric, before passing the roll to Ross, indicating to him to do the same.

Ignoring his own trembling hands, Ross instantly began tearing the fabric, but upon hearing such a question, he found himself staring at his sobbing wife, his heart clenching at the words.

"Demelza?" Ross prompted with a wobbling voice, when she did not reply, Dwight tapping his hand impatiently on the floor opposite him.

The red hair covered her pale face instantly, a grating sob bursting from her lips, and with that, Ross knew the truth. She did not have to say it. "I'm so–s-sorry–R-oss—" The dam had broken, and for a moment Ross could do nothing but watch on. "Oh Judas—it be happenin', ain't it? I be losin' your b-babe—aren't I?" She moaned frantically, directing her question to the young doctor, who was moving on his knees around her.

"Shh, Demelza. Calm yourself. Such emotional stress with worsen it." His voice is low and soft - a tone so far from the authoritative man Dwight had known at war. "Dwight will do his best. Dwight will save our child — I know it. Everything will be alright." Ross lowered his face to hers, gently hushing her as you would a frantic, skittish stallion, despite the fact that, deep inside, he was frantic himself.

"There will be no lost child here today if I can help it," Dwight replied, decisively and confidently, with a kind smile to his friend's young wife. She had such a sweet, generous heart, and had done wonders for his friend; she deserved to have no more tragedy in her life.

"Demelza— " Dwight barked with renewed urgency, meeting her eye with a sympathetic gaze, his mouth a thin line. "You need remain calm. The stress of your attack today is no doubt what brought upon this bleeding. The more you stress, the more likely you are to miscarry — do you understand?"

At the 'm' word, both Poldarks before his visibly flinched — Demelza in panic, already maternally latched to the life within her, and Ross in sorrow, no doubt chastising himself inwardly about how he had already failed her, as her husband, her protector, and as her child's father. "I need to examine you, Demelza—" Dwight began, but Ross immediately bulked.

"Here?" His question dripped with anxiety. "No — with all those rioters just outside—"

Losing patience, the young doctor physically clenched, a sharp exasperated sigh escaping from him. "Ross — you yourself were treated in conditions worse than these. Emergency situations require such improvisations." Leaning into Ross's side, he murmured the rest, not wanting to panic Demelza further. "If we do not stop this bleeding, she will lose it."

It. His child. Lost. Gone. Already. Demelza—bleeding.

"Please, Dwight, do wha'ever 'ee has to!" Demelza whined quietly, leaving a somewhat shell shocked Ross to sit and stroke his wife's hair and face. Dwight hurriedly made quick work of Demelza's skirts, moving them up her legs, before grabbing the torn material pieces and using them to soak up the blood.

"The bleeding has slowed, I think," Dwight sighed, relieved. "Ross — come about and apply pressure. I shall inspect if the rioters have been moved on."

Carefully lifting his wife's head from his lap and replacing it with a roll of fabric for her head, he scrambled to do so, taking the pieces of material Dwight had torn and, once his friend has left the room, pressing them up between Demelza's legs, her modesty still covered partially by her working gown and by her, now soiled, simple cotton undergarments.

"Sorry—" Ross muttered automatically, at such a physical intrusion. He did not look up to her face, but concentrated on his task. I must stop the bleeding. I must stop the bleeding.

"No need for 'ee be sorry, Ross. It's I—I should've—"

Within a second, Ross snapped his eyes to his wife in warning. "—Don't you dare blame yourself." His tone is almost wounded as he considers how generous and gentle his wife's heart must truly be for her to still blame herself, despite having just gone through a traumatic physical attack. He pushed the material hard against her with one hand, while the other smoothed tenderly over the exposed skin of her leg.

Demelza lay beneath him, her eyes shining with unshed tears, her throat shattered with bruises, her body beginning to shiver as her hand remained grasping at her abdomen.

"I love you," Ross husked — the words hanging in the little distance between them, his broken tone hinting at his own restrained emotion. She shuddered more, so Ross threw off his coat as quickly as possible and lay it over her, before pressing a hand back to stop the bleeding. From where he leant over her, he lowered his face to her, his forehead to her temple. For a few long, quiet moments, they remained this way — breathing in each other's air and even beginning to breathe in sync. Demelza's heart rate slowed gradually — the heat of her husband's solid body, in combination with the tickle of his curled tresses against her face, were deliciously and welcomingly familiar and comforting. It was as though his very presence was enough to smooth her — he once said she did such a job for him, only now she was sure it 'twas in fact the other way about.

"I know," Demelza whispered, her hand coming to thread into the curls off the back of his head. With a wobbling chin, she sighed. "Ross, I love 'ee more than anythin'. If we lose the child—"

Ross nuzzled his face against her throat. "—Shh, shh," he hushed. "If we do—"

Before he can finish, she interrupts him, her tone panicked. "—will I have failed you?"

Her voice is so small and meek, he struggles not to weep. "My dear wife, forever underestimating her worth." As Dwight runs back into the room, Mark follows him. Instantly, Ross moves to cover his wife to preserve her modesty, while his hand remained under her skirt, pressing the rags between her legs. They tell him that soldiers have arrived and dispersed the rioters that remained, so they coast was clear to move. Ross, however, barely comprehended the words; his mind plagued with the sight of a pale, weak Demelza and... and her stark, red blood. Nausea rolls through his stomach, triggering a cold sweat on his lip. When Mark went to pick Demelza up on his behalf, Ross instantly dismissed him gratefully, knowing that no one was going to carry his wife on his behalf, not ever.

"Be on your way to my cottage," called Dwight as they hurried down the street toward the stables. Mark greeted them, leading a slightly skittish Darkie. "I'll treat her before Miss Sanderson."

Ross nodded quickly. "We can count our blessings that Darkie has not been looted," he said as he lifted a weary Demelza onto his horse, hastily sliding his foot into the stirrup and swinging himself up behind her, laying her side-saddle against him.

"I shall borrow a horse and be on my way presently," called Dwight, his hand coming down to strike Darkie's behind to spur him into a run.

"Make haste, my friend!" Ross called over his shoulder, one arm swallowing down the massive tidal waves of anxiety that threaten to drown him. Keep swimming, boy, his fathers voice murmured from somewhere deep in his memory. Just keep swimming.

To be continued... if you lovely people are nice enough to review & tell me what you think :)