This story copyright © 2002, 2003, 2004 Mia McCroskey
The characters from The Avengers and Scarecrow and Mrs. King
are the property of those television series' respective owners.
[an error occurred while processing this directive] people have read this story since April 2004
Emma follows her heart
Steed goes for speed
Chapter 1
Emma Peel swung her roadster into the last parking space -- indeed, a
space only large enough for a car the size of her Lotus -- in the yard of the
Knight's Spurs Inn. She sat for a moment in the car, then reached a decision
and picked up the camera bag on the passenger seat. Avoiding the softer looking
muddy areas, which were sure to ruin her French nubuck ankle boots, she picked
her way across the yard to the front door. This inn was only this crowded once
a year, on Bentley Rally weekend. Fortunate, as it probably takes the other
51 weekends to repair the damage to the yard, Emma considered, opening the heavy oak door.
The common room was mad with rally drivers, mechanics, and car buffs
all forcefully quaffing their post-race pints and recounting the day's
adventures. Emma slipped her Nikon out of the bag and turned on the flash. To
her left, Sir Roald Wentworth was animatedly describing his passage through a
nameless village full of chickens. She raised the camera and caught him in a
flattering, jolly instant.
"My dear Lady Emma!" he chortled, blinking from the flash and taking in the way her sleekly tailored, aqua suit flattered her curves. "Shall I start the story over for you?"
"No need, Sir Roald. The picture will be worth a thousand words to our readers."
"Yes, quite," he frowned slightly, but chose to disregard the possible insult. After all, she was far to lovely to have intended to insult him -- lovely enough that poor manners could be excused.
"Lady Emma, I have a proposition for you," he said.
"Yes?" Emma asked cautiously.
"And that's exactly what I hoped you would say! Yes!" He laughed, joined by his mechanic and circle of friends.
"What is your proposition?" Emma asked, seriously, but with enough of a hint of a smile to let him think that she appreciated his cleverness.
"Ahem. Yes. Well," he found himself unaccountably nervous all of a
sudden, "I wanted to suggest that you, that is, your readers, would benefit if
you, just you, not your readers I mean, were to ride along with me tomorrow."
At Emma's raised eyebrows, he plunged on, "Of course I would give you an exclusive interview, and access to all of my, shall we say, shortcuts? Your readers would love it."
"Oh yes, I know I would love to read a first hand account of the drive!" one of the fans chimed in. Emma smiled. She was certain that thirty minutes in Sir Wentworth's car would be more than adequate for her to capture the sensation in writing and pictures. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
"I would be delighted, Sir Roald," she replied, "shall I meet you at your car in the morning?"
"Yes, yes, perfect. Unless you'd like to join me for breakfast?"
"I'm afraid not. I have an interview scheduled."
She slipped away, overhearing one the Sir Roald's friends say, "Come now, who could be worth interviewing when she's riding with Sir Roald all day?"
Emma scanned the common room for the man with whom she hoped to have breakfast. She needed to make contact with him, especially since he didn't yet know about their appointment. She'd seen him that morning just before the start, looking typically dapper in his motoring togs. He hadn't been on the list of entrants she'd received with her press kit, typical of him to enter at the last minute. He'd come in sixth this afternoon -- not a bad showing for an amateur.
"Steed!" She called, spotting him from behind seated alone at the bar. He turned slowly, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard his name. "Steed," she repeated, close enough now for a more intimate tone. His sudden, warm smile sent a shiver through her. How long had it been? Three years if you didn't count that embassy party, which she did not.
"Mrs. Peel."
That's all he said. No more was necessary. Their eyes locked for several long seconds, and she retained the gaze as she slipped onto a miraculously empty stool beside him. It was very close, with the back of a large Scottish mechanic pressing against hers. She leaned close to Steed.
"I saw you this morning, but you were just about to start so I didn't want to distract you," she began.
"And distract me you would have," he replied, giving her that familiar, warmly flirtatious look. "What are you doing here?" He picked up his pint and tipped it to her in a silent toast.
"An article. And photos," she held up the camera.
"Really?" he spread out the word.
"And you're really racing the Bentley?" she countered. He smiled.
"Of course. I had the weekend free, the car's in tip-top shape. Why not?"
"Why not!"
"Have a drink?"
"Please."
She busied herself with storing her camera while Steed attracted the barman's attention and ordered her a half of the house ale.
"Cheers," she said, taking the smaller glass. It was strong and a little bitter, but not unpleasant. She indulged in a hearty sip, eyes once again locked with Steed's.
"I was just thinking about retiring, ordering supper in my room," he said. "Before this lot gets out-of-hand. Would you care to join me?"
"I'd like that. But first I have to do a little work -- before this lot gets out-of-hand." She glanced around the bar. "Thirty minutes?"
"Perfect. Room eight."
"I'll see you there."
Emma worked the room, capturing snippets of conversation and snapping candid photographs. As she had expected, within thirty minutes the crowd had gone from cheerful to drunken and she couldn't get a coherent word out of any of them. She asked a harried waitress where to find room eight.
Steed could not quite believe that Mrs. Peel -- he could not bring himself to think of her as "Lady Emma" -- had walked into the Knight's Spurs. He was not sure how he felt -- he thought he'd finally stopped missing her, but with the sound of her voice it had all rushed back. All at once he felt justified in avoiding her at that embassy party last year. Since then he'd taken the liberty of checking the guest lists for events in order not to meet her with her husband, Sir Peter Peel. An agent could not afford that sort of emotional turmoil.
Her departure three years ago had been so abrupt there'd been no time to question its necessity. One day he was working with her on that memory drug case, the next he was working with Tara King. Tara was bright, lovely, and a good agent. But she was no Mrs. Peel. He knew Mrs. Peel could not have continued to work with him after her husband's unexpected return from the Amazon. But it hardly seemed fair. They had been perfect together.
After Emma had melted into the crowd he ordered the best bottle the limited pub had to offer, a bucket of ice, and glasses and took them to his room. No visit with Mrs. Peel would feel right without bubbly. He set the champagne to chilling in the bucket and changed his clothes, donning a grey cashmere turtleneck and slacks. Then he shaved, telling himself that she might want a picture of him for her article and he should look his best.
Her knock startled him. He checked his appearance in the standing mirror and went to the door.
She strode purposefully into the room leaving him to close the door, which he did.
"Steed, it is marvelous to see you," she said, turning to face him from where she'd stopped in the middle of the room. He slowly closed the gap between them, stopping a comfortable distance in front of her.
"I was thinking much the same thing, Mrs. Peel. I," he paused, not sure what he had been about to say -- I missed you perhaps? How would she take that?
"Yes, Steed?"
"I was wondering how you've been -- what you've been doing, since your -- since Sir --"
"Peter and I have been living on his family estate in the country. I sublet my flat."
"Ah."
She abruptly turned away, setting her camera bag on a chair and looking at the champagne. He followed her gaze and went to open the bottle. He wasn't certain -- it had been three years and her mannerisms might have changed -- but he thought something was bothering her.
"So," she said as he peeled the foil off the bottle top, "Is this a working weekend?"
"No," he said slowly, as if considering something, "It just so happened that this rally and the Bentley being in perfect running condition finally coincided. You may recall I have always wanted to participate. There was a last minute cancellation, so I was fortunate to get rooms along the route for most of the stops rather than miles away."
The champagne cork made a satisfying pop and Steed hastily poured two glasses.
"Something of a dream-come-true then," she suggested, taking a glass.
"I suppose so." The glasses tinkled together and they sipped in appreciative silence.
"I saw your piece on the royal family's hunting pack," he said. He'd been surprised to see it, in fact, Mrs. Peel was more known for working at a higher intellectual level. But he'd cut it out of Horse and Hound and kept it on his desk. He was very fond of the photo of Mrs. Peel in hunting regalia mounted on a shiny bay with hair the same color as hers.
"Fluff," she replied with a dismissive wave of her left hand. "But the editor knew I could get access to his highness and pressed me for weeks. I don't much approve of them chasing poor creatures around the countryside, but I couldn't very well write that angle for H&H."
"Indeed! So it seems Sir Peter's return has opened some new doors."
She set her glass down and walked to the window, which looked out on the inn yard.
"Just the opposite, actually," she said, still turned away from Steed. He could swear her voice broke as she spoke.
"Oh?" he coaxed.
She took a deep breath. "Peter disapproves of my writing. He disapproves of my doing anything other than organizing parties and volunteering here and there. He will not acknowledge that I am no longer the decorative girl he married."
"Come, come, Mrs. Peel, I would never describe you as an ornament! Decorative, certainly, but with extensive substance." Steed interrupted. His attempt at levity failed. She glanced over her shoulder at him, frowning.
"Nonetheless, to Peter I am a ėtrophy wife.' At first I believed it was my responsibility to make our marriage work again, he being the returning hero. So I tried. I organized parties and paraded around on his arm and worked for his favorite charity. But that sort of life is boring and lonely. He's hardly home, and when he is he has very little to say about things that interest me -- he's been test flying the new F-1120, but he won't even so much as show me a diagram."
"I know the ministry briefed him about your work for us while he was gone," Steed said, "You can hardly be expected to change just like that. Or at all."
"When he goes away, I take on projects that are offered -- usually like Horse and Hound because anything more stimulating requires background work that I don't have time for. You'd think he'd like me fawning over the royals, but when he found out . . ." Her shoulders sagged, her voice cracked.
Steed closed the gap between them in three long strides, taking her into his arms without a thought for propriety. She turned into his embrace and laid her head on his shoulder, her arms around his waist.
"What does he do when he finds out?" Steed asked through a tight jaw.
"We fight. Long, angry, exhausting fights. Once he slapped me," he could tell she was smiling, "But only once. I think that's when he realized I'm really not his ornamental wife anymore."
"But he still insists that you should be?"
"Yes. I'm to put it behind me and ėgrow up.'"
Steed tried to conceive of anyone regarding the brilliant, sexy Emma Peel as childish. It was impossible.
"He's gone to Spain for three weeks," she went on, "so I agreed to cover the rally for Motor Week. He'll be livid when he finds out, and I don't care. I can't go on like this."
"My dear Mrs. Peel, you certainly can not." Steed stroked her hair, then kissed her forehead. She raised her head, deep brown eyes glistening with tears.
"There's more," she said. Steed nodded encouragement. "There are other women. When he travels."
"You're sure?" Why would Peter Peel be interested in anyone else when Emma was already his? The man was a fool.
Emma nodded slightly, biting her lower lip. "There's been -- evidence -- in the clothes he's brought back from trips. I suppose he doesn't imagine that I would look in his bags. He wouldn't dream that I might conduct some basic surveillance on him."
"Do you have any hard evidence?"
"No," she sighed.
"Where is he now?"
"Madrid, Hotel Coronado del Sol."
Steed tightened his hold on her, pulling her close, and kissed her forehead again. "Let me take care of it."
He released her and went to the phone on the bedside table. He dialed a series of numbers and waited, turning to look at Mrs. Peel, who remained by the window watching him.
"Albert? Steed here. I have a job for you. A Sir Peter Peel. Yes, that's right. He's in Madrid, at the Coronado del Sol. The usual package, particularly female companionship. Right. Good." He replaced the receiver and smiled encouragement at Mrs. Peel.
"I hope you know I didn't come to you just for that," She said, walking toward him slowly, carefully.
He nodded. "My pleasure nonetheless, although if he finds anything you can use, you should probably pay him yourself -- it would not look good at a hearing if it came out that the ministry financed your investigation."
"Have him send me an invoice." She placed her hands on his chest. Even through his sweater her touch made his flesh tingle. Her bow shaped lips formed a tiny, familiar smile, her eyes searched his. His hands automatically slid around her waist and drew her close.
"I saw you at the Andorran Embassy dinner the year before last," she said. "You were alone."
"Yes, I remember you were there," He countered, trying to ignore her implied question.
"You left rather early, I recall. I went looking for you after dinner . . ."
"Yes."
"Another engagement?" one eyebrow arched. It was no use. They'd been at too many all night parties together for her to assume the truth: that he'd gone home early and alone that night.
"No. I just, lost the party spirit," he finally said, unable to simply tell her that the sight of her waltzing with her husband had made him more miserable than he'd ever thought possible.
"Indeed, and haven't regained it since, it seems. I haven't seen you at any of the events we used to go to . . ." her voice trailed off as she studied his expression. So that was it. She had not wanted to hope, but his sad, slightly fearful expression told it all.
"No," he whispered, one hand sliding up her back to caress the back of her neck, fingers twining in her hair. Her hands slid up around his neck. He bent his head to hers and their lips met, softly, gently, an intimate caress that took him back in an instant to the last time he'd kissed her. She'd been saying goodbye, her husband, newly rescued from the Amazon, was waiting. There was so much between them -- too much to express in the time they had. So they had expressed very little. A tension-filled, chaste kiss, and then she was gone and Tara King was there making tea and chattering on about something.
Now as she looked into his eyes she seemed to relax. He brought his right hand up to her cheek. She leaned her face into his touch.
"Oh Steed," she sighed, turning her face to kiss his fingers. He breathed deeply, absorbing her scent, filling himself with her presence. "Will you hold me?" she begged. That was how she sounded, a beautiful woman begging for affection. The jealousy for Peter Peel that he'd struggled to bury re-emerged as rage. How dare the man drive the indomitable Emma Peel to this.
Wordlessly, because he could not speak calmly, he guided her to the bed and stretched out on top of the coverlet with her in his arms. They lay that way for a long time, and although his eyes were closed, Steed knew from the way her shoulders shook that she was weeping. He held her close and whispered quietly to her, not saying anything, but trying to say everything.
At last she started to talk about her unhappy life with Peter Peel.
The long summer twilight had faded to black beyond the window when Steed finally slid his arms out from beneath Emma, who had fallen asleep. Deeply disturbed by what she had told him, he straightened his clothes, ran a comb through his hair, and slipped quietly out of the room.
The common room was quieter now, but there were a few late diners seated at tables. Steed ordered a light supper for two to take back to his room then went to the phone box in the corner while the food was being prepared. He made two short phone calls and by the time he was through two steaming plates of food waited on a tray on the bar. Waving away the waitress, he took the tray himself back up to room eight.
* * *
"It's so nice to get out into the countryside," Amanda King-Stetson sighed, laying her head back against the headrest and gazing out through the passenger side window. The rental car rambled through a dusky landscape of rolling hills and occasional trees. Sheep wandered in herds over the hills, sometimes accompanied by a lone shepherd or a few dogs.
"We'll be there in about thirty minutes. Why don't you re-read that dossier out loud," Lee Stetson suggested. He was starting to get drowsy and hoped she could help him keep alert. She pulled a folder from the case at her feet and began to read about Sir Roald Wentworth's recent activities.
Fifteen minutes later she flipped back to the first page. "Do you have any hunches as to who he may be selling to this time?" she asked.
"Not specifically. His last two transactions have been to middle-eastern players, but my sources say he's been talking to some south Americans lately."
"That leaves a lot of possibilities."
"No kidding. British Intelligence in London sure couldn't narrow it down, either."
"No. I was surprised that they had so little more to contribute."
"Well, we're sharing pretty much all this surveillance info already, so they know what we know and vice versa. If we're lucky, the field agents at the rally will have more to contribute by the time we make contact."
"Ummm. So you know this fellow, John Steed?" Amanda had switched to a different folder and was studying a photograph of an attractive man in a bowler hat.
"Oh yes. Steed is the typical English gentleman."
"I like gentlemen."
"Except that his bowler hat is made of steel, and his umbrella conceals an epee."
Amanda laughed, "At last, a real spy's spy. Does he have a phone in his shoe?"
"Very funny.
"He's a good agent?"
"The best," Lee slowed the car in the narrow lane. "This is the village, so the inn must be just along here somewhere."
"There, see the lights?" Amanda pointed to a large Tudor-style building. Lee turned into a drive that led around back, but stopped near the front door.
"Let's go check in first, I'll park the car later."
Shortly they were comfortably installed in a third-floor room with a view of the village lane. Amanda unpacked her toiletries and nightgown while Lee called Billy Melrose, their supervisor in Washington.
"We're not making contact with Steed until tomorrow evening," he said, hanging up the phone. "He's with the rally in a village about 90 miles from here tonight. They'll race here tomorrow. We'll drive out and be spectators, get a look at Sir Roald. Then we'll meet with Steed here tomorrow evening. Steed has his people on Wentworth already."
"Good. I can use another night's sleep -- I guess I'm getting old, this jet lag is really taking it out of me."
"Old?" Lee wrapped his arms around her from behind as she stood in front of the dresser. "Hardly."
She leaned into his embrace and smiled at his reflection in the mirror over the dresser.
"So you don't want a good night's sleep?" she asked, reaching up to caress the back of his neck.
"Absolutely not!" he bent to kiss her neck. His lips left a trail of heat as she tilted her head to the side so he could work his way up toward her earlobe.
"Ummmm," a sigh escaped her. Lee's left hand drifted upward from her waist to cup her breast. His thumb flicked at her nipple and she gasped. "Um, Lee," she managed.
"Hummmm," he murmured into her ear. She ran her fingers through the hair on the back of his head and he moved from her ear down her cheek toward the side of her mouth.
"I really need to call mother," she said.
With a sigh he loosened his grip, "I'll be waiting."
He backed away, pulling his sweater off over his head. Amanda headed for the phone while his head was still inside the garment. As she dialed he took off his shirt and sat down beside her on the bed.
She scooted away from him as she listened to the clicks of connecting phone lines. He scooted closer and put his arms around her. She pushed him back with a hand firmly planted on his chest as she listened to the ringing of the phone. He leaned in against her hand and kissed her on the cheek, then reached out and turned her face toward his. It was a losing battle for Amanda, who was just surrendering to his demanding kiss when a voice echoed through the phone line.
"Hello?"
Amanda pulled away from a grinning Lee and turned her face back to the phone, "hello mother!"
"Amanda dear, how good to hear your voice. How is everything going?"
Lee stood up and unbuckled his belt. Knowing what was coming, Amanda turned to stare at the telephone rather than watch her husband.
"Just great mother. I just wanted to let you know where I am. Got a pencil?"
"Right here, dear. Go ahead."
Amanda read the inn's phone number and address from a postcard in a folder on the bedside table, all the while studiously looking away from Lee.
"Amanda, I don't want you to worry, but the sink in the downstairs bathroom started to leak again. I called Phil the Plumber and he'll be here tomorrow. I put a bucket under it and told the boys not to use it." A pair of deft hands slid around Amanda from behind and began unbuttoning her blouse.
"I'm sorry to hear that, mother. Just be sure to remind Phil that he fixed it just four months ago. He said it would last for ten years. Don't you let him charge you for more than -- oh!," Lee had slid her blouse off her shoulders and unclasped her bra.
"Are you all right dear?" Dotty asked.
"Oh yes, mother. Just fine," Lee's hands slid around her ribs and pushed her bra off her breasts. "Really fine." She sighed and leaned into him impulsively.
"Well, the boys aren't here, but I'll tell them you called."
"Where are they?" she asked relaxing into Lee's embrace as he continued to stroke her in all the right places.
"Their father took them to a Redskins game, remember?" Dotty sounded a little surprised at her daughter's uncharacteristic forgetfulness.
"Oh, right. I guess I lost track of what day that was supposed to be," she pushed one of Lee's hands away from her breasts, trying to clear her head for just a moment. "Give them my love, then. I guess I should go before this bill gets too high and IFF won't pay it."
"Have a good night, dear," Dottie said.
"I will mother," Amanda sighed as Lee's lips descended on her neck and his hands slid lower, caressing her abdomen. She replaced the telephone receiver and turned to face him, sliding her arms around his waist.
"What did she say?" Lee muttered against the soft skin of her throat.
"She told me to have a good night," Amanda whispered.
"I'll see to that," he chuckled, and let his lips take hers.
* * *
Steed balanced the tray on one arm as he opened the door and stepped inside.
"Mrs. Peel?" he called, seeing the empty bed. He leaned against the door to close it and carried the tray to a small table near the window. The bathroom door opened as he was removing the plates from the tray. He glanced up at Emma, who stood in the doorway looking refreshed. He took napkins and flatware and two more pints of ale off the tray and leaned it against the wardrobe, then turned to face her.
"I'm feeling rather embarrassed after all that," she said with a shy smile.
Steed shook his head and stepped closer, placing his hands on her upper arms. "Nonsense. You needed to talk to a friend. And I am, and will always be, your friend," he said.
"My best friend, I think. There's no one else I could talk to like this after three years."
"Three long years," he nodded and squeezed her gently. "Have some supper. Things always look less difficult on a full stomach."
He guided her to a chair then sat across from her.
"I asked for something light. But it is a pub, after all," he said, regarding the large servings of shepherd's pie on their plates. Emma took her fork and started eating, discovering that she did, indeed, have an appetite. They ate in companionable silence, each lost in thought.
He has missed me, I wasn't immediately replaced by the next partner. But is there a possible future for us? Would it be like trying to go back, or could we find a way to go forward together. And does he even want to? What is his relationship with Tara King? I'm not sure I could bear it if I find out it's just like ours was. I believe he loved me. Does he love her? Emma felt as if her thoughts were caught in an endless loop.
Steed watched her eat with tidy movements. That was Mrs. Peel in a word: tidy. None of the typical female fuss and bother, unspeakably feminine, but rational, logical, agreeable -- most of the time -- a real man's woman. Hah, what had the last few hours been if not female fuss and bother? He reprimanded himself. Cad! His inner voice replied, she's come to you with a sensitive, intimate problem. Friendship is not fuss and bother. But is it only friendship? She approached me. Does she know what she's doing to me?
"Well," she said, placing her fork and knife across the top of her
plate and looking up at him.
"Yes," he replied, realizing that he'd been staring at her, holding his fork in the air. He hastily put it down and rose to get the tray. "Finished?" She nodded and he put her plate on the tray, stacking his on top followed by the flatware, napkins and glasses.
"I'll get it," she said, rising and preceding him to the door, which she opened so he could place the tray outside.
"Thank you," he said, rising and stepping back inside. The faced each other awkwardly.
"It's getting late," she said, not looking at her watch. Impulsively, Steed took both of her hands in his and brought them up to his lips.
"You're not thinking of going, are you?" he asked, hoping his fear of her answer was not evident in his voice.
"Do you want me to stay?" she asked matter-of -factly. No flirtation, just a simple question charged with infinite repercussions. He took a deep breath and caressed the backs of her fingers with his thumbs. Then he looked into her eyes.
"More than anything, actually," he whispered. Her smile was the greatest reward for his bravery in admitting it. She seemed to come to life, squeezing his hands then striding purposefully away from him to the armchair that held her camera bag. She unzipped a side compartment and pulled out a length of silky fabric with one hand and a toothbrush with the other. He grinned back at her.