First and foremost, a very big thank you to everyone for your reviews of this story over the past six months – I know it's been slow going, so I've really been so touched by your encouragement. I also want to thank all the folks who voted for this story on the Highclere Awards. Given the superb writers in the DA community, I cannot tell you how honored I am that Doubt and Resolution was nominated in the first place – and won! Thank you!

Her head swam, the taste of him both harsh and intoxicating. The slight stubble of his chin; his hands on her shoulders, pressing her back; his mouth demanding against her own—every touch burned, feeding within her an almost unimaginable desire.

His hand rose, capturing possessively the side of her face, and he pulled back, taking her in with eyes dark with desire. It was a look that made her gasp, but also awoke a small kernel of resistance. Ever fiber of her body was alive and wanted to reach for him, to make that connection again, consequences be damned. But something – some stubborn-headed remnant of an older version of herself—made her pause.

As he pulled her roughly towards him, almost without thought she pressed her hands against his chest.

"Matthew," she breathed, her voice giving away her conflicting emotions. If he heard her, there was no sign, as his mouth captured hers again, demanding her acquiescence, her submission. Involuntarily, her tongue darted out to meet his, and with a tug of his hand, she felt her hair come loose, the rebellious locks cascading down her shoulders. His other hand grabbed the fabric of her skirt, and she felt the hemline slowly rising, revealing first an ankle, then a slender calf, and soon was scandalously above her knee.

Her knees nearly buckled at the first touch of his hand beneath the protective layers of her skirt. A wave of desire and panic overcame her, and almost without thinking she both clutched at Matthew's shirt and pushed him away, breaking their connection again.

"Matthew!"

His free hand was in her hair, and she saw him take a breath, clearly trying to bring himself under control, although she still felt the heat of his other hand through her stocking. Her hands still rested on his chest, and she realized that one had inadvertently slipped underneath, where the material gapped between hastily fastened buttons. The shock of his bare skin, the feel of his rapidly beating heart, sent a shiver down her body. She looked down so that he could not read the answering desire in her own eyes.

Her own desire. Good Lord, that had been her downfall in the first place. If she had denied herself in the past, shown some restraint in the face of that man's seduction, she would never have lost Matthew in the first place.

And now, this must surely serve as proof of her own wantonness.

Her voice shook. "I…I cannot blame you for…" She swallowed back the tears that threatened to spill.

Matthew's face was unreadable, and she could not bear to see disappointment, or worse, disgust in his eyes. Unable to speak further, to hear the words of condemnation that she knew must follow, she fled, the dark look he gave her leaving a hollow pit in her stomach.

Matthew sat alone in the kitchen for over an hour, staring into the nothingness of the dying fire. In his mind, he replayed over and over Mary's confession, the uncontrollable anger that had consumed him in response, and the other emotion that had soon overtaken the rage. The memory of her taste, and warmth of her skin against his touch, filled him with both desire and shame. Had she not pushed him away, what would he have done? Would he have further defiled her in his lust?

The past was still a puzzle, she was a puzzle. But her liaison with Pamuk made at least some of those pieces make more sense. He knew two things with the sharp clarity of a survivor: that she hated herself, or at least the part of herself that had yielded to the wretched Turk, and that he loved her completely, even that part she most despised.

He sought her out, knowing that their encounter earlier had only confirmed in her mind her worst judgments of her own character. He feared that she had withdrawn to her room, and for a moment, he envisioned boldly following her to that sacred sanctuary, but shook off such thoughts upon remembering that that haven had been breached before.

In the end, he had not needed to contemplate such measures. He found her, sitting on the moonlit terrace outside of the former library.

"Mary?" He spoke gently.

He saw her stiffen, but she did not turn to meet him. Her skin nearly glowed in the soft moonlight, and he had to swallow down the desire that rose low in his belly.

"I am sorry for my behavior earlier. It was inexcusable." He heard her breath hitch in surprise and saw her turn slightly. "I have not…lost control like that since France…since the hospitals. I had not thought that I was still capable of…"

He did not know how to continue. How to tell her of the changes that the war had wrought…on his body…on his very soul. "I have tried to be like I was. For you. For my mother. For everyone here. But I am not the same person who left Downton four years ago. "

"I know Matthew," came the soft reply, a whisper on the night wind.

"And perhaps I unfairly expected that nothing here would have changed while I was gone. That none of you would have changed." She turned her head now, and Matthew caught her dark gaze . "It made me blind to the truth around me."

Mary twisted in her chair, still not quite facing him, and her face a mask of pain. "I am not proud of some of things I have done, Matthew. And not just…Pamuk" She finished the sentence in a whisper. "I know that I have the capacity to be quite cruel. But…" she paused, as if still forming the thought in her own mind. "I have been so lonely…for so long…it's made me blind, or perhaps just numb, to the pain I inflicted."

She must have seen something pass across his face, for she answered his unspoken question. "Yes…lonely. That sounds ridiculous doesn't it? What a joke!" She laughed mirthlessly. "But I can tell you, I have never been so alone as I have been in a London ballroom during the Season, in turns flirting with or disdaining the potential suitors sent my way by Mama.

"What a spoilt child I was…I am. Bored with my toys, always wanting something more. But I was such a fool, I didn't even know what I wanted or how to get it. And I'm ashamed to admit that I've never been as brave as Sybil. She knew what she wanted, and devil be damned, she went after it." Mary shook her head with a sad smile. "I've always loved her for her bravery, even when I was jealous of it at the same time."

Matthew approached her cautiously, still standing, his eyes resting on what he now saw was her tear-stained face.

"I don't know. I've never doubted that you had your fair share of bravery…" he began.

Mary rose abruptly, anger and self-loathing making her next words as sharp as cut glass. "But I wasn't brave enough to tell you, was I?" She paused, and continued in a smaller voice. "And I will admit that I was a little afraid of the prospect of being a solicitor's wife."

He frowned, but she continued. "I think, now that I look back on it, I was afraid that I would feel the loss of my station, that I was that petty, and that I would in turn make you miserable."

"I wish that you had had enough faith in me to share that with me at the time…and the Pamuk business."

"Oh Matthew, why would you have wanted to be with a woman like me?" Her voice rose, tinged with something close to despair. "I am a lost cause." Her voice broke in a near sob.

Matthew reached out, capturing her arm and pulling her against the warmth of his body.

"Then we are two lost causes, Mary," he murmured in her hair, breathing deeply the faint scent of roses that, subconsciously, had always reminded him of her.

He tucked his hand underneath her chin, raising her face to his. "I'm broken, Mary. More than I seem. And I don't know that I will ever again be the person I was…sometimes I feel like I'm playing a part here, but that this isn't real. That the only real thing left is the mud and death…"

Mary raised her hands to his face. "I'm real, Matthew. And I see you." Her voice broke. She continued in a whisper, "I see you."

Matthew was quiet for a moment, lost in her eyes, before murmuring, "I've missed you, Mary. My God, how I've missed you." Her grip on her tightened, taking her breath away.

Mary's face broken into a watery smile. "I'm so sorry…all these years…wasted."

"No," Matthew shook his head. "No. Don't apologize. We've both been fools, stubborn fools. Perhaps that's why I love you so much."

He felt her shake in his hands, her head dipping as she trembled. Then her hands slipped around his neck, and she buried face in his chest. Only then did he hear her answer, whispered against his shirt. "I love you too, Matthew."

How long they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, neither could have said.

Of course, Carson, if he had chosen to share such knowledge with anyone, could have relayed that the young couple remained on the patio for well over an hour before returning to the warmth of the house.

Being a professional, however, he would not have divulged such intimate details of the family's affairs to anyone but the Earl of Grantham. And seeing how his Lordship was in London, there was little more to do than to remark to Mrs. Hughes at the end of the night that he thought it most likely that there would soon be a wedding to brighten things up at Downton Abbey.

Perhaps at Christmas time, he finished, with a twinkle in his eye.

The End