This story copyright © 2003, 2004 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
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Steed Takes a Risk
Emma Throws a Tantrum
Chapter 7
Emma ignored the mess of flowers and broken glass on the floor, instead scooping up a glass and bottle of brandy from the bar and settling in on the sofa with them. No, Steed, I won't consider.
Several hours later the doorbell rang again.
"Go away!" Emma shouted, realizing on some level that it was very rude. But she didn't care. The bell rang again. Rising stiffly, she staggered to it and pulled it open, scraping the shattered vase across the floor. Amelia Peel, her mother-in-law, stood in the hall looking quite proper and cheerful. Surprised, Emma stepped back.
"My dear Emma, had you forgotten I was coming?" Amelia asked, taking in Emma's disheveled state and the flowers all over the floor. Eyes narrowing with concern, she stepped inside and closed the door.
"No. Yes. It had slipped my mind," Emma muttered, turning away.
"So I see," Amelia said, setting her purse on a table and bending to collect the half wilted flowers. Emma drifted back to the sofa, flopping down on it ungracefully. Amelia watched her as she rose with her arms full of snapdragons. Frowning, she carried the flowers into the kitchen and set them in the sink, unwilling to simply discard them without knowing more. Picking up a dishcloth she returned to the entry and bent to collect the shards of broken vase.
"Did you know this was Waterford?" she asked, noting the water stain and gash on the door and realizing that it had not simply been dropped. "Pitty, it was a pretty thing." Emma's temper was not unknown to her. It had been one of her son's largest complaints about his wife after their marriage. Amelia was not proud that her late son had complained about his wife to his mother. But perhaps she could put some of what he'd told her to use now to help Emma. There was certainly a man connected to this smashed vase.
She wiped the floor, trying to capture all the bits of broken crystal, then carried everything into the kitchen and disposed of it. Returning to the living room, she came around the sofa and sat down beside her daughter-in-law. Emma hadn't moved or made a sound since returning to her seat. Now she turned her head, a forced smile on her lips not touching the rest of her face.
"Forgive me, Amelia. You've found me in a rather foul mood," she said quietly, her voice resonant with controlled anger and sadness. "Perhaps we should reschedule our dinner."
"Who is he, this fellow who can incite such ire?" Amelia asked, disregarding Emma's suggestion. Ever since Peter had introduced his fiancÈe to his parents, Amelia had felt a need to mother the girl. Perhaps it was because she was an orphan, albeit an adult one. Or perhaps it was because she was such a self-sufficient, controlled presence. Amelia had known instinctively that beneath the almost icy facade hid a young woman who needed a mother. Or at least a friend.
"A man I've been working with," Emma said, to Amelia's surprise. She had expected to have to draw it out of her. "I trusted him. He betrayed that trust."
"So he tried to apologize with flowers and you threw them at him?" Amelia asked, unable to repress a smile. Emma would go for a grand gesture in her own home. She'd never do it in public, of course. "It must have felt good, hurling that expensive vase," she added, watching Emma's response.
"No. I hated it. I hated telling him to go. I hated him being here," Emma ran her hands through her hair, then brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She laid her cheek on her knee and looked sideways at Amelia. "And I didn't know it was Waterford."
"If you had, would you not have thrown it?" Amelia asked, mainly to keep Emma talking, but also because the Emma she knew would not have cared about the monetary value of the vase. She was right.
"No. But I might have aimed more carefully, been sure to hit Steed, not the door."
"So what did this Steed do to deserve attack by Irish crystal?" Amelia asked lightly.
"As I said, he betrayed my trust," Emma raised her head and stared straight ahead toward the windows at the far end of the room.
"And this was a business matter?" Amelia asked, certain that it was not. Emma was not easily taken advantage of in matters of business -- of that Amelia was painfully aware. In fact, so far as she knew, it had only happened once, and then because Emma had allowed her personal and professional lives to mingle. Emma had, once, been naively in love. Amelia had not forgiven her son, even in death, for destroying his wife's innocence.
Emma sighed, drawing in a ragged breath and releasing it slowly, thoughtfully. She seemed to reach some conclusion. "I have been working with Steed for a few months. He recruited me. It's top secret intelligence work, for the government."
"You're saying he's a spy, this Mr. Steed?" Amelia's eyes widened. Now this was an interesting development. Emma nodded. "And you're one, too?"
Emma uncurled her legs and rose, pacing around the coffee table and stopping to look at the painting over the fireplace. "After a fashion. Yes."
Amelia was dumbfounded. She'd been expecting an overworked businessman, a greedy publisher, an unscrupulous lawyer. But a spy? Emma's in love with a spy? There was no doubt in her mind that Emma was behaving like an angry lover -- that was as clear as the broken crystal vase had been. Perhaps in Emma's mind it was about the work, but it certainly had more to do with their personal relationship. Her role was clear -- she had to help Emma untangle the work from the relationship, and help her forgive the man, or move on if he didn't reciprocate her feelings.
"So you can't really talk about it, can you?" she asked.
"No."
"You said he betrayed your trust. Can you tell me how, without revealing the details?"
"He lied to me. To my face. He convinced me that he was -- that he had a double. And he let me think that he had been killed."
"But there was no double?"
"No. It was him all along, and he behaved so that I would believe it was someone else impersonating him. I'm sorry Amelia, it's very complicated and I can't explain it."
"But he let you believe he -- the real him -- had been killed."
"Yes. That the double had killed him."
Amelia sighed, trying to grasp the emotional impact of what Emma described without worrying about the secret details. It was certainly a tangled mess. She had not yet formed a response when the telephone rang. Emma didn't move. It rang again.
"Shall I answer it, dear?" Amelia asked. Emma glanced toward the device and shook her head.
"There's a recording machine. Let it answer," she said. Amelia looked at the table where the phone sat and saw a large reel-to-reel tape recorder next to it. As Emma had said, when the phone rang again the reels began to turn. Emma's recorded voice filled the room, explaining that she was not available and the caller's message would be recorded.
"Mrs. Peel, I've drawn up the paperwork to release you from your agreement. Since that seems to be what you want. Again, I'm so very sorry. Please . . ." the man's voice faltered, and then he hung up. Emma grasped the mantle and rested her forehead on the backs of her hands. Her whole body shuddered and Amelia realized she was weeping.
This won't do. He sounded as miserable as she is. They're obviously both incapable of managing a personal relationship. If I didn't care for her so I'd think it pathetic. Grown adults!
Amelia rose and went to Emma, encircling the younger woman with her arms and drawing her head down against her motherly shoulder. Emma accepted the comforting embrace.
"You don't want to lose him, do you?" she asked.
"I want him to trust me," Emma replied. Amelia stroked her hair, understanding beginning to dawn.
"Yes, I suppose that would be very important, if you're working together," she said. "But it seems to me that he must, if he's brought you into his organization."
"Well this time he used me. I was the test. If he could fool me . . ."
"And you were fooled -- you thought the double was him. Except it was him . . ." Amelia faltered, she'd lost track of how this strange double deception was so upsetting.
"Yes, yes, it was him all along. That isn't the problem. It's that he used me in his plan, but didn't trust me enough to tell me. I would have behaved the way he needed me to. He could have told me. Then I would have known he wasn't really killed."
"But he needed others to see your reaction, perhaps? And it needed to be genuine." Amelia ventured, not wanting to ask, but needing to get a better understanding. Emma raised her head and nodded, and Amelia took it as a cue to guide her back to the sofa. Emma sat down, her hands clasped on her legs, her back stiff, her head bowed, staring at her hands.
"Will you tell me his telephone number?" Amelia asked.
Emma looked up sharply. Not wanting to give her time to refuse, Amelia rose and went around the sofa to the telephone. She took the receiver off the hook "Please."
"Why?"
"Because I want to speak to him, this man who has left you so miserable. Something must be done."
Emma looked up at her, a mixture of fear and gratitude in her eyes. "Has he left me, really?" she whispered, frowning as if trying to think through events.
"I think maybe not yet, not entirely, although you've done a fair job of pushing him away, my dear. Now tell me his number and let me see if I can help."
Emma stared at the telephone, then slowly recited the familiar string of numbers. Amelia dialed them. He probably has one of these tape machines too, she thought. He'd better answer.
"Steed here." His voice was weary, thin sounding, although he clearly was well practiced at sounding bright and cheerful.
"Mr. Steed, my name is Amelia Peel. You don't know me. But we have a good friend in common," she began.
"Mrs. Peel," he almost whispered.
"Yes, your Mrs. Peel -- Emma -- is my daughter-in-law."
"And how can I help you, ah, Mrs. Peel?" he stumbled over her name. He clearly attached a great deal of meaning to it, but it didn't apply to her.
"I'm with Emma now. Can you join us here at her flat?"
"I am rather unwelcome there," he said. The sharpness of his tone stung her. She was glad Emma had not heard it.
"I think that my presence will mitigate any further violent behavior on Emma's part. She does so hate to make a scene, you know."
He chuckled, a warm, sensuous sound that gave Amelia a glimpse of what Emma saw in the man. "All right. If you'll be there to referee," he said. He hung up before she could respond, rushing, she imagined, to suit action to words. She replaced the receiver and went back around to sit beside Emma.
"He's coming," she said. "No throwing things, please. I promised."
Amelia urged Emma to go freshen up while she brewed a pot of tea. She was surprised when Emma returned with combed hair and lipstick dressed in a dark blue catsuit with a wide white belt. Emma returned to her seat on the couch, still looking lifeless despite the grooming. Amelia had just served her a cup of tea when the doorbell rang. She went to the door, then paused and looked back at her daughter-in-law.
"Ready, dear?" she asked. Emma set her cup and saucer on the table and looked at Amelia and the door. She nodded. Amelia nodded back and opened the door.
John Steed was tall and evenly built, his impeccable dove grey suit cut to perfectly accent his classic proportions. He wore a bowler that matched his suit, and carried an umbrella, also a perfect match. His grey eyes scanned her with an appraising look that she would not care to be subjected to often. He emanated grace and intelligence, and, as he stepped into the room and locked his gaze with Emma's, a raw, emotional edge. Amelia closed the door and watched Steed set down his hat and umbrella and cross the room, skirting the sofa to end up at an armchair across from it. He did not sit down.
"I would offer you a brandy, Mr. Steed," Amelia said, "but I don't think either of you needs more to drink." His eyes flicked to her, an angry flash quickly concealed by light amusement.
"Perhaps not," he agreed, returning his gaze to Emma.
"Well, as I'm here, you can't very well discuss this matter openly," she said, walking purposefully around the sofa and sitting down. "You shall have to address the matter in terms of your feelings toward one another."
Emma's head snapped around, her glare burning with livid anger. Amelia took a deep breath as discretely as she could. Withstanding Emma's anger was a challenge for the strongest personality. She managed it by not meeting her daughter-in-law's eyes. She looked at Steed instead.
"Mr. Steed, Emma tells me that you engineered a plan that involved her, but did not tell her about her role in it. That, it seems, is the root of the problem."
Steed sat down in the armchair, studying Emma as he moved. He folded his hands in his lap, waiting for Emma to look at him. She finally released Amelia from her angry stare, turning it on Steed.
"I could say that I had no choice," Steed said quietly. "Major Carson insisted that the plan go no further than the two of us."
Emma sat rigid, not even acknowledging that he was speaking.
"But it wouldn't be true. The Major had authority, but I could have insisted you be told. You are my partner."
"And yet you did not," Emma said coldly. Amelia glanced at Steed, expecting him to flinch at Emma's tone. But he sat complacently. They match one another ice for ice. What happens when they make love? And she realized quite suddenly that these two were most certainly lovers. That was the only explanation for the depth of Emma's hurt.
"No," he said. And then there was silence. Amelia looked at Emma and saw that the younger woman was not going to speak. Pride, anger, and hurt all conspired to keep her silent. Lord help them when I'm not around.
"Why, Mr. Steed? Why didn't you insist?"
"To test her," he said, his voice nearly a whisper. Emma's eyes narrowed. Amelia hadn't thought it was possible for the woman to get angrier. But still she remained silent, leaving it to Amelia to press on for her.
"Why?"
"I want --," he started, his voice cracking. "I need her to know me. I wanted to know if she knew me so well that I couldn't deceive her."
"And I failed." Emma finally spoke. Her voice so flat, so full of misery Amelia's heart quailed.
"I was cruel and selfish," Steed went on. "I treated something very precious to me very casually. I shall regret it forever, Emma."
And the tension broke. Just like that. In a graceful motion Emma rose, crossed the room, and knelt in front of Steed. She placed her hands on his knees and looked up at him. Amelia regretted that she couldn't see Emma's face. But she was sure Steed's expression must reflect it. His grey eyes softened, little crinkles forming at the corners as he smiled ever so slightly. He looked joyful.
"If you ever test me again, Steed," Emma said evenly, but there was a lightness in her voice that had been missing before, "then you shall never see me again."
He nodded, his face suddenly quite serious. He raised one hand to cup the side of her face and Amelia suddenly felt very superfluous in the room with them. As she rose she watched Emma lean her head into his hand, then rise up on her knees. His legs parted and Emma moved in between them sliding her arms around his waist and laying her head on his chest. He lowered his head, burying his face in her hair. The transition from hostility to intimacy was so abrupt it spoke to Amelia of great passion. Amelia knew she was seeing an already powerful bond mended and strengthened, and that she was no longer needed. She quietly retrieved her purse and went to the door, glancing back at them in time to see Emma raise her face to Steed's. She slipped through the door before their lips met -- that was simply too intimate for a proper Englishwoman to observe.
"I'll promise never to do such a thing again," Steed whispered, drawing away from her kiss. "If you'll promise not to throw heavy objects at me."
Emma tipped her head to one side to regard him, her face alight with a barely contained grin, "that seems fair, if a bit limited," she said. "You'll note, for example, that you have not excluded my use of sharp objects."
Steed laughed, reaching around her to pull her up onto his lap. "I have a sharp object for you," he said, one hand wandering up and down her back, the other one drifting across her thigh.
"Your tongue?" she asked, feigning innocence, then drawing his face to hers with a hand behind his neck and using her own tongue to test her theory. She abruptly stopped and jumped to her feet, whirling around to face the rest of the room. "Amelia?" she called.
Steed rose, wrapping his arms around her from behind. "She slipped out," he said.
"Gone?"
"Uh huh. We'll have to call her later. Take her to dinner."
"That's why she came. I've been terribly rude to her."
Steed chuckled into her hair, his hands finding more pleasant areas of her body to caress. "My darling, I think she went away satisfied with her accomplishments," he said. She lay her head back against his shoulder, her body arching under his touch. One hand rose of its own accord to twine fingers into his hair.
"Steed?"
"Yes Emma?" his lips were at her ear, his breath tickling her as he spoke.
"Did you really file those papers?"
"I prepared them," he said. "But unfortunately they became somewhat unreadable, so they couldn't be filed."
"Unreadable how?"
"I burned them."
Steed turned her around and scooped her up, one arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees. She gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck, trembling with a rush of pure joy.
"John," she moaned as he laid her on her bed, pressing kisses all over her face. "Fill me. Make me whole."
"You are whole, my darling. You're my whole world," he replied, more than willing to comply with her demand just the same. He slowly unzipped her catsuit, then slid it off of her shoulders and freed first one arm and then the other. She slipped her arms around his neck, drawing his face to hers for a long, insistent kiss.
He reached around her to unfasten her bra, drawing a row of kisses down her neck and between her breasts. She arched beneath him, sighing with pleasure as his kisses descended across her stomach. Her nipples burned to be touched, but he moved on down her body as if saving them for later. He pulled her suit and panties off, then stroked her legs, parting them as he crawled back up the bed.
And then he was inside her, filling her with his thick, solid shaft, making them whole again. She'd been so absorbed in his marvelous touches she hadn't even noticed him opening his flies and lowering his trousers. She moaned his name, mouthed it against his neck, pressed herself up to meet him as he thrust again. His mouth sought hers, sucking her lips and tongue in sharp, demanding kisses.
"Oh please," she moaned as his thrusts slid in deeper, lubricated by her hot juices, "Faster John, please go faster."
He rose over her on straightened arms, driven by her cries to frenzied, burning strokes. His orgasm was explosive. Its great throbbing waves filled her and triggered her own climax. She cried out wordlessly, hands gripping his upper arms, hips writhing against him. He lowered himself over her to bury his face against her neck, inhaling her scent as his breathing gradually slowed.
"My Emma," he sighed into her ear as she wrapped her arms around him. They lay together, pounding hearts slowly quieting, desperate need satisfied, but desire still smoldering.
After a while she rolled him onto his back and carefully opened all of his buttons. She removed his tie and spread his jacket, vest, and shirt open. He watched her work through hooded eyes, sighing as she caressed his chest and ran her hands over his solidly muscled abdomen. He reached up to cup one breast and she froze, squeezing her eyes shut as he rubbed his palm against her solid nipple. She sucked in a sharp breath and released it in a long moan, lowering herself to press her bare flesh against his.
Their mouths met again in a long, wet kiss punctuated by happy little chuckles.
"What was I angry about again?" she asked, nipping at his nose, then sucking his lower lip between hers.
"I was, as you put it, thoughtless, ruthless, and manipulative," he replied when she'd released his lip.
She winced. "Oh John, I'm so sorry I said all that."
He shook his head, touching a finger to her lips. "You were right, darling. And I meant what I said. Never again."
"I believe you, John," she said. "Now take off your clothes please." She rose off of him, folding her arms to wait expectantly. He sat up, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.
"Vixen," he whispered in her ear, then leaned away to look into her eyes. They shone as they always had, but for the first time he let himself recognize it for what it was.
"You love it," she whispered, no flash of doubt this time, only clear devotion.
"Yes Emma," he leaned in to kiss her, "I do."
Emma had never experienced make-up sex of this magnitude before. Fights with Peter had been followed by activities that could only be described as tepid compared to the next few hours with Steed. Perhaps because of their weeks apart, it was like starting all over again.
Or it could have been because she finally understood the intensity of Steed's emotions toward her. He may never utter those three little words, but he declared his love for her again and again with each kiss, each caress, each deep, hot thrust into her eager loins. She was precious to him.
Much later, lying secure in his arms she felt a great bloody fool for not allowing herself to see it. It had been there from the start in his searching gaze and passionate kisses. It was why he had never pressured her to sleep with him -- she was too important to him to be a casual partner. It was why he did things that she asked that he would not with anyone else, why he confided in her like no one else. It was what he meant when he said she was not "one of them" -- the other women he dated. She had wanted it so desperately she'd been unable to believe it could be true if he didn't actually say it.
All through the evening and night they explored one another, pleased one another, stroked, kissed, and licked one another. They dozed -- in each other's arms, or Emma's head on Steed's stomach, or his on her thighs. Then one would awaken and begin again, sucking the other's toes, drawing circles on a stomach, or boldly teasing a nipple. There were no boundaries or rules, only the need to be together and to prolong the experience of rediscovery.
Bright morning light suffused the bedroom when Emma woke from a deep, dreamless sleep. She rolled onto her side and watched Steed sleeping, his hand tucked under the pillow beneath his face, the slashed scar on the outside of his left shoulder stretched taut. His face, so expressive when wakeful, was cherubic in sleep. She'd lost count of how many times they'd made love, how many times he'd driven her beyond the edge of reason with his fingers and his mouth and his hot, solid penis. She was blissfully exhausted, more emotionally and physically fulfilled than she could ever remember being.
"It's too early to wake up," he muttered and she realized that he'd been watching her watching him. Always a spy.
"Sorry. Can't help it. Go back to sleep."
"Too late," he sighed, rolling onto his back to stretch his arms above his head. Lowering them he reached over and caught her, drawing her to him. She settled happily against his side, one arm stretching across his chest. "What time is it anyway?"
Emma squinted at the clock by the bed. "Half ten."
"I owe you dinner and dancing. How about tonight?"
Emma closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat. "Um, what day is it?" she asked with a giggle. Steed stroked her hair absently, thinking for a moment.
"Sunday," he finally said. "I had to think about it."
"The last couple weeks seem like a dream," she whispered.
"A nightmare."
"Um. We can't go out dancing on Sunday night."
"No?"
"It's just not done, Steed," she insisted, although her real reason was the soreness in her nether regions.
"All right. Tomorrow night then?"
"I think I'll be able to manage it by then," she chuckled.
"Long night, Mrs. Peel?" he chuckled back, understanding her problem.
"Nothing a warm bath -- alone -- won't help," she said.
He caressed her back with one hand and her hair with the other, smiling contentedly.
"Steed, will you have dinner with my friend Nancy and her friend Howard some time?"
"Are you planning to join the party too?" he asked. She knew it was a delaying tactic.
"I thought I might throw the party. I'd like you to meet my friends. They keep asking why I'm so busy."
"And does your friend Lord Frederick ask?"
"Yes, in fact."
"Then by all means I'll join you -- sounds like I need to make my presence in your life known."
She stretched to kiss him, caressing his chest. "It's known, darling. Very known."
fin