Two's Company

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people have read this story since April 2004

Two's Company

Steed Takes a Risk

Emma Throws a Tantrum

Chapter 1

Steed was particularly well practiced at arranging these things: book two adjacent rooms in a large, anonymous inn; Treat her to a fine dinner; Chat about her interests while gazing seductively into her eyes. An after dinner drink in the dim saloon, a moonlit walk along the boardwalk, then on up the stairs to her room. And make a strategic exit some hours later, both parties sated and in need of a few hours sleep. He was immensely discrete -- of course there was talk of that rogue Steed, but no real evidence ever surfaced because he chose his companions for their discretion as well. Such get-aways were his reward to himself for performing a dangerous job well, the lady's company as much a part of the reward as the good wine and restful scenery. It was a formula that, combined with a few quiet days at home and long, late night sessions in the gym, always put him in the right frame of mind for the next assignment.

But as he started the Bentley and smiled over at Emma sitting in the passenger's seat, he realized his error. His formula was entirely self-centered. It hardly mattered who he went with, so long as she was pleasant, willing company. But not Emma. No matter how their relationship had changed in the last week, she could never be one of his casual weekend companions. Whether she knew it or not, and whatever the depth -- or shallowness -- of her feelings, Emma mattered to him.

And yet he could no more cancel the outing than he could cut off his right hand. He wanted desperately to spend the next few days with her. To finally allow their delicious post-prandial kisses to transition into the love-making that his body had ached for all these months. Their sexual encounters so far had been intense, tumultuous, spurred by desperate, overwhelming desire and raw emotional need. They had yet to live out his fantasy of talking, and kissing, and slowly undressing one another, gently awakening desire, nurturing it from smolder to flame to raging passion and quenching it with equal care.

His hands gripped the steering wheel so tight his shoulders hunched toward his ears as he navigated out of London and onto the highway.

"Are you all right, Steed," she asked, her brows knit in concern. He forced his shoulders down and sent her a reassuring little smile.

"Fine, Mrs. Peel, just a bit stiff from tackling Hicks," he said.

"Perhaps you could use a massage," she said, her tone completely neutral. He risked a quick glance and she was looking straight ahead, no hint of seduction in her posture or expression.

"Maybe so," he said weakly.

The case they had just concluded would have been one of the more frivolous of his career if it hadn't begun with two -- no three -- murders, if you counted the raven. Certainly it had been peopled with typically eccentric English characters -- the Tower yeomen, the bakers, and, of course, those annoying ravens. But it had concluded well enough, with no further casualties to man or beast, only the vandalism of the Queen Mother's crown. Steed still couldn't get over how his plan to protect the real jewels while allowing the villains to proceed with their crime so that they could be caught red handed had failed. It just reinforced his growing realization that he should advise Emma of all his plans. She had caught the hole in this one the moment he told her, but by then it was too late. Still, the crown jeweler had assured the ministry that the damage was not severe, the returned jewels could be reset and the integrity of the crown had not been compromised. Except, of course, for that one jewel tucked away in a box in Steed's desk. He should have brought it along and stopped off at the Tower to return it. As it was he was certain his telephone tape machine would be full of messages from Mother by the time he got home. He smiled mischievously at the thought.

"What devious plot are you hatching?" Emma asked idly, seeing his smile.

"Just thinking about that jewel in my desk. Should have returned it. Someone is bound to be frantic."

"It is real, then?"

He looked over at her, realized that he hadn't told her -- probably because she'd been right about his plan being a poor one. He sighed.

"Yes. Bradford did manage to get hold of the real crown instead of the fake."

To her credit, she didn't look smug. But she did chuckle. "So just about now the Tower jeweler is resetting all those precious gems and he's going to discover that one is missing. And here we are jaunting off on a holiday. Why don't you call someone, when we get there?"

"Because it's rather more amusing to let them fret for a few days. It's only a jewel -- not a life and death situation."

"So is that the test then? Things are only important if they're a matter of life and death?"

She was peering at him, looking a bit disappointed. Surprised at the intensity of her reaction, he shrugged to counteract the twinge to his conscious. "No, you're right. I'll call Mother. If they're desperate, someone can go round to my place and get it."

Emma reached over and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. She hadn't meant to sound so sharp. She knew he was annoyed with himself for failing to protect the jewels, but allowing himself to neglect his duty was not like him. She was annoyed with herself for not even thinking about preventing Bradford from removing the jewels from the crown -- at least Steed had thought of it and tried to prevent it. But if he'd discussed it with her when he implemented his plan, she would have pointed out the flaw in it and the real crown would have remained intact. She hoped it had taught him not to exclude her.

Steed parked the Bentley not far from the entrance to a sprawling seaside inn. It was a little remote -- the village it was attached to was about a mile up the coastal road. Although the season was just beginning, other weekend guests had already arrived and the car park was half full. Steed took both their bags from the back seat and surrendered them to a porter who met them at the inn door, holding it wide for them to enter. He checked them in to their separate rooms, noting that Emma showed no reaction to this arrangement and wondering if she really had none, or was simply hiding it. Of course there was no other option -- they simply could not share a room. Even if nobody in either of their social circles ever found out, it simply would not be appropriate.

They were shown to their rooms, which were conveniently across the end of the hall from one another -- Steed's looking south and west across the sea, Emma's looking north and east across the lovely sweeping hills toward a fringe of what was once a great forest. They both changed into casual clothes and met up in Emma's room.

"What's your pleasure, my dear?" Steed asked, trying not to admire her shapely behind in the capri pants she'd put on below a short, sleeveless blouse that hung loosely away from her body and revealed an enticing slice of skin when she moved. She had a sweater knotted over her shoulders against the inevitable evening chill. "A walk along the boardwalk? A drink before dinner?"

"Yes," she said, her deep brown eyes capturing his, her crooked smile drawing him to her despite his efforts to keep things light.

"Yes to which one?" he asked, finding himself standing very close to her, his hands rising to envelop her. She smelled of honey and coconut. She pressed her hands onto his chest, fingering the fine weave of the silk shirt beneath his cardigan.

"Both!" she replied as if it would have been obvious if he hadn't been so easily distracted, ignoring the fact that she was as enticing as a bowl of fresh cream before a thirsty cat. Her hands slipped up to either side of his neck and she gently pulled his face to hers for a soft, light kiss with still smiling lips. He tried to hold on to her and steal another, but she ducked out of his arms and headed for the door grinning at him over her shoulder like the Cheshire cat.

They walked along the boardwalk, close but not touching. Steed studiously not taking her hand although he desperately wanted to. It seemed so school boyish, and yet that was exactly the innocent, warm contact he craved. Other couples stood together looking out at the sea, or walked along as well, interspersed with family groups and the occasional single walker. It was that lovely twilight hour when the sunbathers had retired to their rooms to prepare for dinner, and sun's slanting rays gilded everything with lingering warmth.

At one of the many sets of steps that let down onto the beach, Emma veered away from Steed, pausing on the bottom step to remove her sandals before stepping onto the sand.

"Come on," she said, heading toward the water, "I love to walk on the hard sand at the tide line." Her last words were thinned by the sea breeze, which played with her hair as well.

Steed didn't especially like sand in his shoes and socks. But, he realized, there were sacrifices he was willing to make for Emma that he wouldn't for others. Smiling indulgently he descended the steps and followed her, trying unsuccessfully to keep his topsiders on top of the sand.

"This is lovely," she said as he caught up with her. The damp sand was easier to walk on. Steed glanced back at their footprints -- her barefoot, rounded indents next to his oval, hard-edged prints trailing behind seemed to describe them perfectly. He smiled to himself, then at her.

"It is," he agreed, taking a deep breath of moist, salty air.

"Come on," she challenged, trotting ahead then darting toward the water as it receded. Steed picked up his pace, but refused to chase after her. He plunged his hands into his trouser pockets and watched as she tossed her sandals to the beach above the tide line, then approached the water again. She followed it out onto the soft wet sand, then ran backwards, arms reeling like a little girl's as the next wave approached, squealing as the cold water touched her toes. Steed was mesmerized by her childlike joy. She beckoned to him, but he grinned and shook his head, holding his ground above the sea's limit as she challenged it once again.

She stopped and turned, her hands extended to him as a small wave broke around her feet. "Come on, Steed, it feels wonderful!" she said.

"Not tonight," he said, finally drawing the line for his own comfort, much as he wanted to capture her lithe body against his. Her expression flitted from pouty to mocking to bold challenge.

"Come get me, then," she said as if she sensed his desire. He stood his ground, smiling, watching a wave break behind her, it's rushing edge soaking her feet and ankles. Her feet would be getting buried in the sand now -- he could imagine the cool pressure, the rush of the water, the mysterious touches of unknown objects carried in the water. He knew it felt good, began to regret being so stubborn. Tomorrow, he promised himself.

"Chicken?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips, her pelvis angled toward him, her sweater accentuating the swell of her breasts. He watched the water recede. In three long strides he was with her. He wrapped his arms around her, lifted her, and carried her back up the beach above the water line. He set her on her feet but didn't let go. Her arms were around his neck, her face turned up at the slight angle necessary for their eyes to meet. Her scent of honey and coconut mixed with the salt air filled his lungs. The breeze drew locks of her hair, luminous in the sun's last rays, across her face. He brought his hand up to sweep them off and cupped the back of her head to keep them there. The child was gone; the woman in his arms aligned her body to his as if they were one being.

"Emma," he whispered, feeling himself falling into the deep, sensuous depths of her knowing eyes. He couldn't restrain his kiss, couldn't stop his tongue from plunging into her mouth and caressing the inside of her lips. He needed her, and he needed her to know it. She responded, fingers tangling in his hair, mouth open and inviting. He sucked in a ragged breath, consciously containing the flames of desire that urged him to press her into the sand. She sighed, tipping her head back as instead he placed kisses along her jaw, down her neck and up the other side. She nibbled his ear, blew into it so lightly his knees weakened.

Wordlessly they parted so that Emma could pick up her sandals. They walked up the beach to the boardwalk, never fully breaking contact. His hand sought hers, then released it and pressed into the hollow of her lower back. Then her hand slid around his waist. As they approached an elderly couple their hands slipped back to a discrete clasp, nodding at the seniors as they passed. Half a step behind her on the stairs inside the inn, he placed his hand on her buttocks, feeling the muscles work as she climbed, letting his fingers slip between her legs to feel her heat and breathing a needy groan against the back of her neck.

He crowded against her as she unlocked her room. They slipped inside as one, Steed closing the door behind him. She dropped her sandals with a thud and turned into his arms, lips finding his in a continuation of the kiss on the beach. His hands slipped under her sweater and blouse sliding up her warm back. As the fabric bunched around her she grabbed it with both hands and pulled both garments off over her head. She dropped them on the floor and shook her hair back into place, her breasts bobbing in her lacy white bra. He lowered his lips to them, dropping kisses into her warm cleavage, inhaling her sweet, salty, musky scent. His hands caressed her ribs then rose to cup her breasts as she traced his ear with her tongue, curling it around his earlobe and drawing it down his neck. His skin tingled as she placed feather-light kisses just above his collar. One hand played with the short hairs at the back of his neck while the other slipped to his chest to unbutton his sweater.

Impatient, he lifted his head and pulled the sweater off over it, dropping it on top of hers. With his hands on either side of her neck, fingers slipping into her hair, he took her mouth again with great, demanding kisses that she eagerly returned. He pressed against her, guiding her backwards onto the bed, his tongue tracing the ridges on the roof of her mouth.

Gently, controlling his strength and weight, he pressed her down, drinking again of her delicious mouth. She fed him with animal moans of pleasure as his solid erection pressed against her own aroused center through their pants. One of her hands remained tangled in his curly hair, the other groped down his shoulder to his chest to find his nipple through his shirt. His lips drifted over her face and down her neck, nipping at her ear as she sighed wordlessly into his. Sharp desire made him drive his aching penis against her as she rubbed two fingers over his hardening nipple. With one hand he stroked her from shoulder to navel then back up, circling her breast, hovering over it to tease the nipple solidly erect within her bra.

She reached for the buttons of his shirt. While her fingers worked at it, he raised his hips enough to slip his hand between her legs and stroke her inner thighs and press strong fingers against her hot, aching center. She shuddered, back arching to press her breasts against him. She used the hand on the back of his head to drive his mouth back against hers as she groaned in hungry need. Her raw urgency sent his hand plunging under the waistband of her pants. His fingers slid through damp curls to part soft lips and stroke her vulva. She moaned again, one hand gripping his forearm, the other clutching the front of his shirt, buttons forgotten as she shuddered against his hand.

Desperate for a similar release he withdrew his hand and pressed his pelvis against hers, grinding his solid erection into her through their pants, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration to keep from coming too soon.

She bent her knee up and forced him to roll onto his back, pinning him with one knee between his legs, leaning one arm on his chest as she unfastened his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. With the flys parted, she drew his briefs down, freeing his penis and balls, caressing them lightly, feeling their heat and weight and size. He moaned at her touch as she ran her thumb over the tip of his shaft, spreading a drizzle of his hot semen over it, then down the underside.

Then she was gone. His eyes shot open. She was standing up, hands on her hips. When she saw that he was watching she slid her pants down, squirming her hips out of them and bending first one knee, then the other to free herself, offering him glimpses of her wet, flushed genitals as she moved. Then, naked except for her bra, she climbed back on top of him, pressing her self against his erection but not taking it inside. She walked her hands up his chest and onto his shoulders, bending her head to suck at his nipples as she ground her pelvis against him, rubbing herself on his hardness and shuddering with controlled pleasure. His penis filled her vagina, it's tip rubbing her vulva as she moved.

With a mighty groan he rolled on top of her, parting her legs with his, driving himself all the way into her in a single thrust. She cried out, a sound of animal pleasure, her fingers digging painfully into his shoulders as he withdrew part way and thrust again. The tip of his long, solid penis pressed against her sensitive cervix making her moan again and again with each penetrating stroke. She pressed up to meet him, her legs wrapped around his back, her mouth dragging at his, sucking his tongue and his lips as he drove himself into her over and over, filling her, fulfilling her, giving her everything until they both cried out again in a massive, shivering climax.

He wrapped his arms beneath her shoulders, supporting his weight on his elbows as he squeezed her in a bear hug, pressing his lips to hers in a slow, grateful kiss. He shrank within her and she slowly lowered her legs to the bed on either side of his. He opened his eyes to look into hers and felt that she was looking into his soul. His need for her must be written all over his face, his exquisite happiness at their joining must be audible in each gradually slowing heartbeat. She caressed his shoulders where she'd dug her fingers so deeply she'd made bruises. He kissed her forehead, then one delicately sculpted cheek, then the other. He lowered his head beside hers, kissing her ear.

"Emma," he whispered, putting everything that he could not say into that one exhalation. She slid her fingers into the hair on the back of his head.

"John," she sighed, and he was sure he heard I love you in that single syllable.

At last he grew uncomfortable and realized he was still in his pants and shirt. He rolled to the side, then reached across her to drag a folded quilt from the foot of the bed over her nearly naked body. She stretched luxuriously under it, putting her hands behind her head. He took his pants off, then unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and took it off too. Then he got under the quilt with her and gathered her into his arms. She came most willingly, snuggling against him almost like the child she'd been on the beach.

They drifted for a while, half dozing, stroking one another, comfortable and safe under the quilt. Finally Emma opened her eyes and saw that the room was nearly pitch dark. The sun was long set, their dinner reservation probably long past.

"My mother would have been appalled," she said softly. Steed's eyes glinted, amazingly picking up what little light there was in the room.

"We're the reason she taught you to take the hotel coverlet off and not use it as a blanket," he agreed.

She snorted with laughter. "I meant at the way we went at one another. Again." she said.

"I don't know, I think we were very restrained to make it this far," he replied, stroking the side of her face with one finger. She smiled dreamily.

"If you'd asked me on the beach, I would have, no matter who might have seen," she said. He smiled, his white teeth flashing in the darkness.

"I very nearly did," he admitted, "but the sand would get everywhere. Very uncomfortable."

"Ummmm," she traced his face with the back of her hand, studying the contours she could barely see in the darkness. "I've never felt anything like this before," she said.

He considered asking if she meant his cheek or the stubble of his beard. "It's remarkably powerful, isn't it," he said instead, understanding that she meant their mutual attraction.

"I thought that once we'd been together it would lessen," she chuckled, snuggling herself closer to him, "the big mystery solved, the desire fulfilled. But if anything it's gotten stronger."

"Enjoy it, darling," he sighed, pressing his face into her hair.

"Because it's bound to end?"

"God I hope not."

They cuddled a while longer until Steed rose to relieve himself. He returned to find Emma sitting on the bed with the quilt covering her lower body.

"I'm trying to decide whether to take my bra off and drag you under the covers proper, or leave it on and get dressed. Are you hungry?" she said, watching his silhouette against the bathroom light, which he'd left on to provide some indirect illumination in the room. He scratched his chest, then looked toward the bedside clock, but it was too dark to read.

"I am, a bit. We've missed our dinner reservation, though."

"I know. And I don't fancy sitting in a stuffy dining room. Wasn't there a pub in the village? Maybe it's still serving something. I'd love some nice, greasy fish and chips."

Steed couldn't help grinning. Emma was the first woman he'd ever brought on a holiday who gladly turn down an expensive, romantic dinner in favor of fish and chips in a pub. She was neither interested in impressing him nor in being impressed.

"What do you think?" she added, since he was mysteriously silent.

"I think a little drive and some salty food and beer sounds perfect."

They did find the pub open and willing to serve them a late batch of fish and chips. They sipped rich, dark local ale and doused their fish in malt vinegar, licking greasy fingers and ordering more ale to counteract the salt.

"Tell me about your mother," Steed said, well into their second pints.

"Tell me what you already know," she countered. She found it difficult sometimes knowing that he had access to the extensive background checks the ministry had conducted on her, while she had to make do with the couple of peeks she'd managed to get into his rather thick file. He certainly was not a fount of information about himself, his past, or his family -- other than his multitude of probably fictional aunties.

"That her family is very well-placed. That she had a sister and a brother, although you have never mentioned them. That your father married very well and it caused a rift between her and her family -- which might account for your reticence," he paused, studying her face to determine whether he'd said too much. Her expression was unreadable. "I know that she died when you were a girl -- twelve years old, weren't you?"

"Yes. Almost thirteen."

"That's very young. Do you remember her well?"

She stared into her beer, holding the glass with both hands, elbows on the table.

"I think that some of my memories of her are not real -- that I imagined them, or dreamt them, or that they are wishful thinking," she said. When she looked up at him her eyes were bright.

"I'm sorry," he said, meaning for upsetting her.

"It's all right," she replied, "They're good memories, whether they're real or not."

"Tell me?"

Only Peter had ever asked her to talk about her mother -- and it had seemed rather like he regarded it as a duty as her fiancée. She had friends who'd known Elizabeth Knight, so they didn't ask, and friends who had not who did not inquire. Men typically avoided the subject. Except Peter, her deceased husband, and now Steed. The association made her smile to herself, even though she had no illusions that her relationship with Steed could ever possibly become that of husband and wife. Still they shared a similar bond.

"She was very proper and demanded the same of those around her. In public she seemed aloof -- my father told me that people thought she was cold --," she stopped, looking curiously at Steed's amused expression.

"And I thought you got that from your father," he said lightly.

"You think I'm cold?" she asked, eyebrows arched, mouth mocking.

"I think you work very hard at being self possessed and independent. Some people see it as aloof and cold," he replied. "I find it extremely alluring."

"Good answer, Steed," she smirked. Steed smiled, sipping his beer and watching her, waiting for her to go on. "In my earliest memories she's rather like an ethereal being. Nanny would bring me in while she was dressing for an event with father and I'd watch her flit around the bedroom selecting her outfit, accessorizing, putting on makeup. Looking back I know she must have been very bright, to be able to split her attention between me prattling on about my swimming lessons and pony club and the loss of a favorite doll and her own need to look fantastic on father's arm. She made it look easy, looking devastatingly attractive. My father relied upon her in those days, when I was very young. He was just getting Knight Industries started, and her family contacts were invaluable."

"So the family rift was not as bad as reported?" Steed could picture young Emma watching her mother dressing. The small girl had probably wished the adult would sit with her on the bed and comfort her about the lost doll or admire a dressage ribbon, but was afraid to ask her intimidating mother. But Emma seemed to regard what sounded like a daily interview with great fondness.

"As my father grew more successful, he gained acceptance from his in-laws. But mother never forgave them for their initial objections. It was only because my father so needed the contacts that they could help him make that she remained cordial with her parents. My maternal aunt, Emma, was around then. She was also my Godmother, and I was named after her. Now she lives in Japan. She married a diplomat who was posted there after the war. He retired and they stayed on. My uncle Alex lives in Sussex. I see him now and then. He raises horses, in fact. You'd probably like him."

"Probably," Steed agreed, waving at the barman for another round while Emma looked into her half-empty glass as if it were a crystal ball.

"Father surprised us with his first sailboat when I was nine or ten. He firmly informed us that such a small, modest craft was not to be called a yacht," she grinned up at Steed, then glanced at the waiter who placed two more pints on the table. She lifted her old glass and drank about half of its contents. "We cruised for two months that summer, living practically on top of one another, father teaching me to sail, mother watching. I think that in some ways she disapproved -- I was not the young lady that she wished for. But years later father told me that she understood that I needed to learn. Sailing is so complex, but also so natural and basic. It's just wind, water, and sails. But it's also language, command structure, details, planning, safety, tactics --," she took another long gulp, nearly draining the glass. She set it aside and centered the fresh one in front of her. "Father used it to teach me discipline, which I needed, and inspire my interest in navigation, among other things.

"At night, anchored somewhere, while father was on the radio with someone from his office, mother and I would lie in the cockpit and look at the stars. She knew all the constellations. We talked about everything those nights. I treasure them, because the next two summers I was too busy with ponies and parties and I didn't have time for dull old star watching with mum."

Emma took a sip of her fresh ale and looked up at Steed. Her eyes were bright again and he thought he should tell her to stop, but he couldn't. He wanted to know more, to know about the youthful experiences that had made her the only woman he had ever met that he could love. Instead he reached across the table and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently.

"I only found out several years later that she'd known she was dying that summer. They both knew. It was as if she was trying to transfer all of her knowledge and wisdom and values to me before it was too late. I sometimes wonder if I'd known, would I have listened more closely? Or would I have been to grief-stricken to pay attention at all?" She shrugged, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. "In any case, I came away from that summer with a clear understanding of what my mother expected of me. Of what she would approve of, and what she would not. And an equally clear realization that it was up to me to make my own decisions."

"Do you think she'd approve of the decisions you've made?"

"I think she never dreamt I'd be a widow in my twenties. She never dreamt of the world that we live in today, either -- it's so different from the one she left me in just a decade and a half ago."

Steed looked at their joined hands, stroked her fingers with his thumb. She looked too, and smiled. She took another sip of beer and her smile turned slightly wicked.

"She would probably disapprove of my current career path. She would certainly have advised me to develop my relationship with Freddy Leighton," her eyes rose to meet Steed's, who's brows were rising in pretended alarm, "he's dependable, has the right background, and is pleasant to be with," she explained, knowing that her friendship with Lord Freddy was a recent sore spot and wanting to exorcise it.

Steed smirked. "But I'm a much better dancer," he said smoothly.

"And my mother would most certainly disapprove of the direction our relationship has taken."

Steed leaned back in his chair, stretching his arm out in front of him to maintain his grip on her hand. "But you've said it yourself, Mrs. Peel, we were lovers from nearly the day we met -- it was just a matter of degree."

She nodded, smiling down at her beer. Suddenly her head popped up and she skewered him with a probing stare. "Are you trying to get me drunk, Steed, to put me in a --," a hiccough erupted from her chest and she put her free hand over her mouth in surprise, "in a compromising position?" she finished with a giggle and another hiccough.

Steed laughed outright, leaning across the table and squeezing her hand. "I know several good remedies for your condition," he said, ignoring her question. She hiccoughed again. "You could hold your breath until they stop, or drink the rest of this beer in one long gulp -- no, wait, I suppose the beer's what's caused it, isn't it," he tsked a few times as she hiccoughed again.

"Come on," he stood up, releasing her hand to find his wallet and drop several folded bills on the table. She stood up as well, hiccoughing again and drawing the attention of the few other late patrons slouching at the bar. Steed put his hand on her shoulder and guided her outside. The pub was on the edge of the village along the main road. Steed walked her to the passenger side of the Bentley, smiling as she alternately shook with more hiccoughs and drew in deep gasps of the crisp, salt air. She reached for the door but he reached around her to hold it closed, then turned her around by the shoulder with his other hand and kissed her mid-hiccough. He kept kissing her until she kissed him back, both of them ignoring her occasional little shivers. He breathed through his nose, not releasing her lips for a moment, and allowed his hands to wander up and down her back. She reached around him, one hand sliding up to tickle the back of his neck, the other creeping down to his belt, then below it to squeeze his buttocks.

After a long while they both realized that she had stopped hiccoughing. She pulled her face away from his, sucking in a deep breath and grinning up into his twinkling eyes.

"My mother would not approve of your remedy, Mr. Steed," she chuckled.

"But you make your own decisions, Mrs. Peel."

"Yes. I fear there may be another bout coming on in a bit. Perhaps you should get me back to the inn to administer it again."

"It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Peel."

"Yes it would," she agreed, turning to climb into the car.

She really was a bit tipsy, Steed realized as he lent her his arm to climb the stairs. Am I taking advantage if we already made love once tonight? he wondered as she missed the lock with her key. He deftly took it from her and opened her door. She pulled him inside by the hand, flipping on the wall switch with the other. She was clearly unaware of his hesitation. It was one of his personal rules -- nothing beyond kissing when the lady is unsteady on her feet.

Emma walked into the room and sat down on the bed, then jumped back up. "Ugh, damp," she groaned, dragging the coverlet to the floor. Thinking of what her mother would say, and slightly appalled himself, Steed stepped over and gathered the soiled bedspread, roughly folding it and placing it on a side chair. Emma picked up the quilt and spread it over the bed with a lofty flip. She wavered on her feet as it landed, bending forward to lean straight-armed on the bed. She straightened slowly and turned to face Steed.

"Steed, would you mind terribly --."

Steed stepped to her, placing his hands on her upper arms to steady her. "Why don't you get a good night's sleep, Mrs. Peel," he said, leaning close to kiss her forehead. "I'll check on you in the morning, if I may?"

"Take my key so you can come in," she said.

"You sure?"

"Certain," she nodded firmly, "I'm going to try to stay on my feet long enough to clean my teeth. If you find me on the bathroom floor in the morning, please just put me in the bed and don't mention it."

Steed smiled at her enduring good humor, placed a gentle kiss on her lips, and carefully released her arms. He pocketed her key, which he was still holding, and went to the door. "Lock this," he reminded her as he stepped out. She crossed to the door, a bit steadier this time, and closed it after him. He heard the lock click behind him, then dug in his pockets for his own key and crossed the hall.

Chapter 2