This story is copyright (c) 1999 by Josephine March. The characters are the property of Alliance Communications. You may not reproduce this story in any form without the written permission of the author. Comments are welcome at the above address.
Meg jabbed irritably at the alarm clock as it went off. No time to linger in bed this morning. As she sat up and threw back the covers, a stabbing pain shot through her head. It took up residence just behind her eyes and turned into a dull throb. She swallowed experimentally. Yes, there it was. Yesterday's vague tickling sensation had turned into this morning's full-blown sore throat. Cursing inwardly she grabbed a tissue and headed for the shower. The steam didn't help. A few minutes later, wrapped in a warm robe, she opened the window curtains. The skies were leaden, thick with clouds that promised snow. Damned Americans! Why had their two most revered presidents picked the coldest, dampest, most miserable month of the year to be born? Meg went into the kitchen, where she drank an extra-large glass of orange juice, using it to swallow a couple of Vitamin C tablets and some aspirin. She also forced herself to eat a bowl of oatmeal. She decided on coffee rather than her usual tea, hoping it would help keep her awake.
Back in the bedroom, she stepped out of her warm slippers with regret. She laid aside her usual silken underwear in favor of what she referred to as her cast-iron long johns - good, solid thermals from home with real staying power for the cold. Her fingers ached as she did up the laces of her boots, then all those damned gold buttons, and finally the Sam Browne belt. The tunic itched diabolically, even through her thick undershirt. She picked up a clean white linen handkerchief, then put it down and replaced it with as many tissues as she could conceal in her pockets. She eyed herself dubiously in the mirror. The best makeup in the world wouldn't help today, but she did her usual careful job, then yanked the brush through her hair one last time. Ouch! Even her hair hurt.
Hearing a knock at the door, she glanced at her watch. Punctual as usual. It was exactly eight o'clock. She jammed her cap down onto her head before she opened the door.
"Good morning, Sir." Fraser, standing on the porch, looked unbearably cheerful and as handsome as ever in his dress uniform.
She grabbed for a tissue as her own "Good morning, Constable" was drowned out in a torrent of sneezes.
"Are you sure you should be going out this morning with that cold, Sir? The temperature is a few degrees below freezing, and they're predicting snow."
She eyed him contemptuously, blew her nose again, and shrugged into her coat. "Let's get going, Constable. We need to be at the reviewing stand before nine. Let's not let a little cold weather get in our way." She swept out of the door and past him, tugging on her gloves as she went.
The drive downtown was silent, though punctuated occasionally by Meg's violent sneezes. Partway there, it became apparent to her that her supply of tissues would not last the morning. "Please stop at the corner, Constable," she said. "I want to get some more tissues."
"Allow me, Sir." He was out of the car and into the drugstore before she could stop him. He returned a short time later and handed her a small paper bag. "I also took the liberty of picking up some throat lozenges," he said. "Cherry."
"Thank you, Constable." Meg occupied herself with secreting the lozenges and as many tissues as possible about her person during the rest of the drive downtown. The wind was picking up as she greeted the other dignitaries on the reviewing stand. She shook hands with the Mayor, the chief of police, a U.S. Senator, several aldermen and state legislators, and a number of her colleagues from other consulates. The President's Day parade would begin passing in review promptly at 9:30. She could hear drums in the distance as she shrugged out of her coat and laid it on her chair. The wind picked up, and the colorful flags around the stand snapped and crackled in the stiff breeze. Surreptitiously, she popped one of the lozenges in her mouth. It was strangely soothing.
Meg smiled, chatted, and sneezed occasionally as the cheerful, jostling crowd lining the street waited expectantly for the parade to pass by. Fraser, she noted, was far to the rear of the group on the stand. A few flakes began to fall from the leaden skies as the first band rounded the corner. Meg quickly fell into a routine. Smile. Salute. Chat. Sneeze. Boy and Girl Scouts. Military units. Veterans' groups. Ladies' auxiliaries. Various beauty queens - in fur coats, Meg noted - and local celebrities in antique cars. High school bands from all over the state. The city fathers had decided to wrest control of Presidents' Day back from the malls and the automobile dealers. And they had done the job with true patriotic fervor. Ethnic organizations. Ah, yes. There were the police. And the Police Athletic League. And the Police Boys' and Girls' Clubs. The Salvation Army. The Shriners. Trade unions. Community associations. The wind blew steady and strong, and the snow fell ever thicker on the marchers and the enthusiastic crowd. Smile. Salute. Chat. Sneeze. Several times during the course of the morning she managed to pop one of the lozenges into her mouth.
The last group marched proudly past the reviewing stand at 2:25, precisely one hour and twenty-five minutes behind schedule. The Windy City was living up to its name, and Meg could no longer feel her feet. She experienced a moment of vertigo as she leaned over to pick up her coat, and she grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself. Two hands reached out and took the coat, then held it out for her as she got into it. Turning, she looked up into Fraser's anxious blue eyes.
From a paper bag he produced a steaming paper cup of tea laced with sugar and lemon. "I thought this might be beneficial," he added.
"Thank you, Fraser." She could feel the warmth of the cup through her gloved hands. She inhaled its vapors gratefully and took a sip of the scalding liquid.
"I'll bring the car around," said Fraser.
"No, I'll walk along with you. With the streets as they are, it would take you a half-hour to get back here." They made their way through what now looked like nearly two feet of snow. It was still falling steadily.
"Looks like a major snowstorm for Chicago," observed Fraser.
Their boots crunched through the fresh snowfall. Fortunately, downtown traffic was light due to the holiday. Meg settled gratefully into the backseat for the drive home. She closed her eyes and dozed off as Fraser guided the car through the frozen streets. The drive home took an unusually long time in the ever-worsening weather. Occasionally, the snow blew so hard that visibility was completely impaired, and Fraser would pull over and stop until his view was clear again. At other times, the windshield wipers lost their battle with the elements, and he would climb out of the car to scrape the windshield clean. Meg was deeply asleep as they pulled up in front of her house. She awoke suddenly as the car stopped.
Fraser was holding open the door. "Allow me to walk with you to the door, Sir. The snow drifts are quite deep."
The dizziness hit her again as she left the car. She did not demur as he offered her his arm, and they set out through the drifted snow on the front walk. A particularly vicious gust of wind caused her to stumble, and she tightened her grip on his arm. He stopped, looked down at her again with those anxious blue eyes, and then suddenly lifted her in his arms as easily as if she had been an infant. He covered the short distance to the house in a few strides, pausing on the deep front porch.
"Key?"
She fished it out of her coat pocket and handed it to him. He unlocked the door and carried her in, stopping to knock the snow off his boots. He deposited her carefully on the living room couch.
"Let me take your coat and cap, Sir."
She removed her cap and allowed herself to be divested of the coat. These he took to the kitchen. She watched him shake the snow off carefully and spread the coat out over the back of a chair near the radiator so that it could dry. Only then did he remove his own coat and hat. Her head ached abominably, and she leaned sideways onto one of the cushions on the arms of the couch. Fraser returned to the living room and looked down at her for a moment. He knelt and undid her complicated bootlaces with practiced ease, not surprising since his own boots were identical. The boots were off in a moment, and he laid her feet on the couch. After offering her another cushion for her head, he reached for the quilt folded over the back of the couch and laid it over her.
"Rest there for a while," he said. "I'm going to get you something hot to drink, and then I'll see about dealing with your front walk."
"Not necessary, Constable," began Meg.
"You're needed at the Consulate. The sooner you fight off your cold, the sooner you'll be able to return to your duties," Fraser observed. "Besides, this is turning into what passes for a blizzard around here. There's almost a meter of snow on the ground already."
Meg made no further protest. It felt good to rest on the couch. She did not fall asleep but dozed on and off, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen. She heard the teakettle begin to whistle. A short time later, Fraser, minus his tunic, returned carrying a tray. On it he had placed the teapot, two mugs, a lemon, a bowl of brown sugar, and two spoons. There was also a glass pitcher of some amber liquid. She watched as he sliced the lemon and squeezed both halves of it into one of the mugs. He added some of the brown sugar and stirred carefully. Next came the tea - strong, she noted with approval - and finally he stirred in a liberal pouring of the amber liquid. He waited while she sat up, then handed her the steaming cup.
"Fortunately you had some dark rum on hand," he said. "This was my father's recipe. He wasn't a drinker, but he always said that this was the best remedy for a cold. The lemon juice has Vitamin C, the tea picks you up, the sugar soothes your throat, the steam helps you breathe easier, and if none of that works, you don't care anyway because of the rum."
Meg smiled, then took a sip of the fragrant liquid. "It's good," she said, and took another sip. Somehow this old-fashioned concoction was easing her headache. Fraser poured himself a cup of tea - minus the rum, she noticed - and sat in a comfortable chair between the couch and the fireplace. Meg began to feel warm for the first time that day. She set down her cup, undid her belt and tunic, and began to shrug out of it. Fraser looked momentarily embarrassed.
"Never mind, Fraser," she laughed. "I'm perfectly decent. I think we must get our long underwear from the same place back home."
"This is my last pair but one," he said ruefully. "I'm going to have to send home for some more. Somehow the ones I see around here just don't seem equal to the task."
"Well, they didn't do me much good today," said Meg, stifling another sneeze. "I'll admit I felt like a real idiot standing there without my coat. But the Americans always want to see the uniform. Couldn't let them feel cheated on Presidents' Day."
Fraser looked at the fireplace. "Would you like me to light a fire?"
"That would be very nice," she replied, as she took another sip of the hot drink. Fraser had the fire blazing in a few minutes. It made a cheerful light in the quiet room as the early winter twilight began to settle in.
"You need more firewood," observed Fraser. "Is it out back?"
"Please, don't bother, Fraser."
"No bother at all, Sir. Besides, I want to have a look at the weather." He donned his hat and coat in the kitchen and went cheerfully out the back door.
Meg sipped her drink and drowsed in the firelight. Fraser was back again in a few minutes with a large armload of wood, which he set in the basket on the hearth.
"It's as I thought," he said. "This is turning out to be a respectable snowfall. The roads appear to be impassable for now. The police have blocked off the hill at the top of your street, and the snow is still falling."
"Just make yourself at home," replied Meg. "I'd like to get a hot bath, and after that, could I trouble you for another mug of this wonderful drink?" She rose from the couch and headed for her bedroom.
A look out the front window confirmed that any efforts at dealing with the front walk would be futile. Fraser made a call to his neighbor, Mr. Mustafi, who would at least feed Diefenbaker if he did not make it home. He poured himself a cup of tea and carried it to the living room. Then he removed his own boots, stirred up the fire, and sat in the comfortable chair by the stone hearth.
As he looked around, he had to admit that he admired the Inspector's taste. She had done a great deal with the 1920's-vintage bungalow she had purchased shortly after her arrival in Chicago. He knew from her observations at work that walls had been knocked out on the ground floor to turn several small rooms into a large, airy space. The dark oak floors and woodwork gleamed in the firelight. The furniture was of the same Arts and Crafts era as the house itself; some excellent original pieces and a few well chosen reproductions. The effect was comfortable and welcoming without the slightest sign of frills or fuss. The kitchen was spare and functional, but it included a large, round oak table that invited lingering. He knew that the back of the house had been turned into a master suite, but he did not expect to see that. He also knew that the second floor now housed a guest room and a den. Fraser relaxed in the peaceful setting.
Almost an hour later, he woke with a start. Although the fire still crackled in the hearth, the house was absolutely quiet. He listened carefully for a few minutes. No sounds emerged from the back of the house. Fraser padded down the back hall and was confronted by the door to the Inspector's bedroom. He listened carefully, then tapped on the door. Doubtless she had finished her bath and gone to bed.
"Are you all right, Inspector?" No answer. He pushed the door open a crack and peered in. She wasn't in the bedroom. That must mean she was still in the bathroom. Fraser listened carefully, hearing nothing. He inspected the room briefly, noting that it was furnished in a considerably more feminine style than the living area, and located a door at the back of the room. He approached it and listened again. No sound. "Inspector," he called, knocking again. Then, more loudly still, "Inspector!" Still no answer. Had she experienced another episode of vertigo? Had she slipped and fallen? He considered this for a moment, then knocked and called again. Still he hesitated before opening the door. At last he shook himself. "This is ridiculous," he told himself, "The Inspector may be lying injured on the other side of that door." He squared his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and tried the doorknob. Fortunately the door was unlocked.
The Inspector was deeply asleep in the rapidly-cooling tub. Her lips were slightly parted, her head bent to one side at an angle he found enticing, but which would probably eventually leave her with a stiff neck. Her condition was not surprising, Fraser reasoned, considering the fatiguing day, her cold, and the stiff drink she had just consumed. He cursed himself for giving her too much rum and tore his eyes away, inspecting the bathroom and considering his options. The bathtub was large, square, and deep, covered on the outside in a pale gray marble, elevated by a step from the rest of the room, and open on three sides. There was a large window in the wall behind it, and the shades were open to reveal the snow still falling outside. For some reason, this winter scene made even Fraser feel like shivering, and he reached over and drew the shades.
A plan was definitely called for. There was plenty of room for him to maneuver at the end of the enormous tub to support her head and shoulders should that become necessary. It seemed best to him to re-fill the tub with warmer water and allow her to awaken naturally. If this did not occur within, say a half-hour, he felt sure he could awaken her from the safety of the other side of the door. As for the fact that she was as naked as the day she was born, he would not think about that. As a highly-trained police officer, he would focus only on her needs. No, that wasn't right. As a highly-trained police officer, he would focus only on the fact that she was a person in need of his assistance. Much better. It could be his Uncle Tiberius lying there in that tub. Or anyone else for that matter. He would just need to concentrate on that and ignore the fact that she was not his Uncle Tiberius, or anyone else, but the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, lying there... No.
Resolutely, he examined the decor and architecture of the bathroom as he went over his plan once again. Handsome reproduction fittings, he noted. Now, all he had to do was reach over and turn the faucet. Was that a glass-walled shower stall? Very practical in case two people needed to... Well-crafted joinery in the vanity cabinet. Oak, was it? Perhaps he should gather up a towel or two to roll up under her head, in case... And this stone. Was it marble as he originally thought, or perhaps granite? The only remaining question to be considered was how much of the plan he could accomplish without waking her. While he knew that he could walk home with little trouble, the prospect of the Inspector's wrath was not to be taken lightly. Fortunately, she still appeared to be deeply asleep. Sighing, he reached over to turn on the hot water tap. Then he stationed himself at the head of the tub, ready to intervene immediately if she began to slip.
Meg stirred, still deeply asleep. As Ben had feared, her head fell forward; her mouth was just inches away from the water. He moved quickly to support her shoulders. Meg stretched a little, sighed and leaned back languorously - into a pair of strong arms. Still trapped in that foggy state between sleep and wakefulness, she was at first unable to decide if the arms were real or part of some pleasant dream. Through half-closed eyes, she examined them with interest and recognized them. She had admired them often enough on those occasions when Fraser had rolled up his sleeves, though always from an appropriate distance. She drew an experimental finger up one of the arms from the wrist to just inside the elbow where it disappeared into a sleeve. This caused its owner to draw a sharp, somewhat uneven breath. Fully awake now, she repeated her experiment with the other arm, eliciting the same response, then followed with a path of little kisses, ending at his wrist. She placed a final kiss in his palm and closed his hand.
His arms tightened around her, and she felt the softest kiss just at the back of her neck. With a little sigh, she stretched contentedly and settled herself more comfortably against his chest. Ben, who had expected any reaction but this, moved slowly, intoxicated by her dark, silken hair, her neck, and that indefinable fragrance - whatever it was - that had haunted his senses since their adventure on the train. He buried his face in her hair, covering her neck and shoulders with kisses, and noticed with sudden delight that she moved her head to make room for him. Her body shimmered in the warm water. His teeth and lips found an earlobe enticing him to nibble it gently, and for this he was rewarded with another little sigh.
Meg raised her arms slowly, bringing her hands behind her head to touch his face, and in the process more clearly revealing the breasts he had only imperfectly imagined for many long months.
"Are you warm enough now?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yes, quite warm," she whispered against his ear.
Ben lifted her out of the bathtub and set her carefully on her feet. Reaching for a towel, he knelt in front of her and began drying her with deliberate care. It was an act of such intimacy and tenderness that Meg found herself trembling, almost unable to stand. When he had finished, and every inch of her skin was rosy and glowing, he settled her bathrobe around her shoulders - his own hands trembling as he did so - and then stood looking at her again. She looked up into his eyes and found that for the first time since she could remember, they were not anxious but as trusting and guileless as a child's.
Meg felt an uncharacteristic wave of tenderness, and she embraced him and laid her cheek against his chest, listening to his heart. He held her that way for a long moment; then, taking her face in both his hands, he kissed her. The kiss began gently enough; a soft brushing of her lips with his that nevertheless left her breathless. But it was at the almost-shy touch of his tongue that she was finally undone. At that instant, all the doubts, the confusion about duty, the uncertainties, the anger and impatience, the icy distances - all of these condensed into the single point where their lips came together, then vanished as though they had never existed. Ben's heart lifted at her sudden response, and his kiss became more greedy and demanding, as though he were laying claim to something that belonged to him. When they finally needed to breathe, he placed his lips next to her ear and found himself whispering all those tender, secret things he had never permitted himself to think, much less to say to her.
Meg wanted to touch his skin. Her terry robe slipped from her shoulders, and she began to struggle with his suspenders, too distracted to focus on what she was doing. He smiled down at her and shrugged out of the suspenders, leaning towards her obligingly so that she could remove his shirt. She buried her face in his chest again, breathing in his scent, tasting him, leaving kisses wherever she could reach. Her lips found a nipple, and she teased it gently, alternating little bites and kisses, feeling his arms tighten around her. When her lips, then her hands, found the button on his trousers - still securely done up - he stopped her, taking both her hands in his and drawing her up to face him once again.
"Not so fast, Meg," he whispered. He left a kiss in each palm and pulled her arms around his neck so that he could kiss her again. The silken feeling of his skin against hers was almost more than Meg could bear. She gave a little strangled cry and stood on tiptoe, locking her arms around his waist, holding on to him as tightly as her strength permitted. For the second time that day she found herself being lifted into his arms. This time she nestled her head on his shoulder and kissed him again.
Ben laid her on the bed as carefully as if she had been made of glass, then stood silently looking down at her. His eyes held a question which Meg answered by reaching up with both arms to pull him down beside her. She drew a finger down the center of his chest to his navel, admiring his well-formed muscles. Her brown eyes suddenly took on an impish look, and she drew the same finger up his side, over his ribs. This rewarded her with a deep laugh, and she looked up to see his eyes alight. A slight smile played around his lips. God, it was wonderful to hear him laugh! She couldn't recall ever having heard the sound before. She wanted to hear it again, so she repeated the action on the other side, then snatched her hands away before he could grab them. "No, you don't!" she said. "Since I'm here, I get to kiss all the best parts."
He laughed again, "And just what would those be?"
"That's for me to know, and for you to find out," she said quietly into his ear.
She ran her tongue gently around the rim of that same ear, then traced the line of his jaw and his neck with tiny kisses. His face was pleasantly rough at this hour, and she found she liked that very much, so she let her cheek rest against his for a while before her lips found the pulse at the base of his throat. This time when her hands reached for the offending button, he made no move to stop her. Meg's mouth followed her hands, trailing down his flat belly to the curls at the base. She began a lazy exploration there, first delicately with the very tips of her fingers, then with her lips. She wanted to memorize him, his shape, and taste, and smell, and she took a slow delight in his reaction until she felt him shiver. "God, Meg!" he whispered, bringing her face back up to his. "There's plenty of time."
As if to give life to his words, he let his lips wander slowly to that well-remembered spot between her breasts where the hairpin had fallen; only this time he stayed three, content, nuzzling and kissing as he pleased, reveling in the softness and that indescribable scent of her clean skin. "You smell so good," he murmured. Meg's fingers were twined in the thick curls at the top of his head. They knotted convulsively when he let his lips wander to a breast, nuzzling it gently before taking a nipple into his mouth, letting his tongue dance across it until she sighed with pleasure. Then, as if in some spirit of gallantry or fair play, he repeated the dance on the other side Meg's small cries excited him it some way he could not fathom, and he wanted to cover her with kisses just to keep hearing her. When he found her mouth again at last, she pulled him close with a surprising strength, her hand reaching down again. And again he pulled it away and whispered "Are you always in such a hurry, Meg?" He kissed her again as though he would swallow her intoxicating sounds of pleasure and feed her back his own.
Meg's body was covered with a soft sheen of sweat. He lapped it with his tongue in that now-familiar spot between her breasts; then finally allowed his hand to stray down to the silken place between her thighs. She lay absolutely still then, as his hand sought a rhythm that pleased her; then she arched her back against him and pulled his mouth to hers with that strength that had surprised and delighted him before. Her tongue danced and darted against his, finding and echoing the movements of his hand until she, herself, broke off the kiss with a single word, "Now!"
But he only laughed and took his hand away, for a breathless instant, and when she cried out with disappointment she felt his mouth there where his hand had been, and she followed him to some other world, some other place that centered only on that gentle caress. Again, she lay so still that he might have thought she had stopped breathing; only her fingers stroked his hair.
This time when she arched her back and cried out for him again, he did not deny her. In the instant when he lay poised above her, Meg opened her eyes and experienced a moment of perfect clarity. She saw his eyes, then every line and plane of his face with the evidence of his desire for her written so plainly there. And in that instant, she thought that look would stay with her forever. Then, as she reached up to draw him to her, all conscious thought was gone, to be replaced by a slowly-rising sense of heat at the place where their bodies joined. Meg's eyes were closed and she did not see the glitter of satisfaction in his eyes as he felt her climax begin, but she heard him whisper "I love you, Meg," as he allowed himself to follow her.
When his senses returned to him he pulled her, still joined to him, to lie on his chest, making a tender, protective circle with his arms and cradling her head gently on his shoulder. Meg looked up at him for a long moment; then, without a word, she grasped his shoulder with the possessive gesture of a child, nestled her head into his shoulder, and fell deeply asleep. Ben covered them both against the chill with the tangled comforter and settled his cheek against her hair before he, too, fell asleep.
When Meg awoke some time later, it was far into the night. The bedside lamp was still lit, and she knew instantly where she was and what had happened. Hardly daring to move a muscle, she studied the man asleep beside her, admiring the touseled wave of his hair; the curved length of his eyelashes; the line of his cheekbone, shadowed by his beard; and the pulse that now beat slowly and steadily at the base of his throat. His arms were still around her and she turned her head just a bit, wanting to look at his hands. That small movement woke him, and he looked down at her with a lazy smile of recognition.
"It's late," she whispered, reaching up to kiss him and then tracing the line of his lips with her finger. "Go back to sleep."
"I don't know that I want to go back to sleep," he replied, settling her more comfortably in his arms. "I might just want to lie here and look at you for a while."
Meg was quiet for a moment, then said, smiling, "Tell me something. Whatever possessed you to come into the bathroom?"
Ben looked momentarily sheepish. "I fell asleep on the chair by the fire in the living room," he finally replied. "I slept for at least an hour, and when I woke up, I couldn't hear you. I wanted to check to make sure you were all right, and when I didn't see you in here, I knocked on the bathroom door - several times, I might add, and loudly. When you didn't answer, I was concerned that you might have had another episode of vertigo and fallen. The water in the bathtub was quite cold..." he broke off for a moment.
Meg cast her eyes down in mock disappointment. "Oh," she sighed. "And here I was thinking you got me drunk just so you could have your way with me."
"Never!" he said, and laughed that wonderful laugh. "I'm too much of a gentleman for that. But I don't feel like much of a gentleman now," and he drew her face towards his for one of those slow, hungry kisses she was learning to love so well. They were interrupted in this pleasant occupation by a decided rumbling sound. Meg started, then blushed to the roots of her hair.
"You're hungry," he smiled.
"I think I'm past hungry," she said, patting her stomach ruefully.
Ben kissed the top of her head, then stood up and tucked the covers back around her, in the process affording her a view of his naked body that nearly took her breath away. "It's too early for breakfast in bed," he said. "How about midnight supper in bed?"
"Only if you'll let me come with you," she replied, throwing off the covers on her own side.
The walked out of her bedroom and down the short hall to the living room arm in arm, whispering like two children.
"I'll build up the fire," said Ben, pausing by the fireplace.
When he entered the kitchen, she was studying the contents of the refrigerator. He stood there for a moment admiring the curve of her back and the contrast of her dark hair against her white skin. Then he moved to where she stood, fitting himself close behind her and placing his chin on her shoulder so he could stare into the refrigerator, too.
"There's eggs," she said, her voice just a bit husky. "And cheese, and this poor hothouse tomato."
"Sounds like an omelet to me," he replied, tracing the curve of her hip with a finger.
She reached into the refrigerator, then turned to face him. "If you make me drop these eggs," she smiled, "we'll starve."
"Understood," he replied, taking them from her. "I'll move them over here where they'll be safe." He turned back toward her and took her in his arms, but they were interrupted by a sneeze.
"Damn," said Meg.
"Don't you want to wait for this in bed?" asked Ben. "Or at least put your bathrobe on?"
"What I'd really like is another one of those hot toddies," she replied. "They're like a miracle cure."
"It's actually not a toddy," observed Ben. "It's my father's own variant on Navy grog." Ben experienced a moment of uneasiness about his father. Surely he would have the good sense not to put in an appearance at this juncture. He put the thought from his mind.
"Well, if it's good enough for the Navy, I suppose it's good enough for me," replied Meg. "If you'll make those, I'll take care of the omelet."
They busied themselves about the kitchen with the mundane cooking chores, each pausing occasionally to steal a shy look at the other. When the drinks were ready, Ben carried the tray to the living room, then turned to the kitchen where Meg was preparing to turn the omelet. He walked up behind her there at the stove and slipped his arms around her waist.
"Better watch it," she said dryly, "unless you want oeufs a la hockey puck."
"Sounds delicious," he murmured into her hair, then jumped out of the way quickly as she turned with the hot pan.
They made a picnic on the quilt in front of the fireplace, sipping their drinks and sharing the omelet - which had turned out wonderfully. When they had finished eating, Meg settled back lazily against Ben's chest. His hands went to her shoulders and began a gentle massage, finding each little knot of tension and fatigue and slowly kneading it away. Meg sighed and stretched against him like a cat, and they lay there, quite content, for some time, staring into the firelight.
Meg was half-asleep when she felt his finger being drawn slowly up her side, next to her ribs. She moved quickly to capture it without looking at its owner. "Ah," she said. "You're trying to find out if I'm as ticklish as you are! Well, try all you want, because I'm not."
Ben repeated the movement with his free hand and said, "Well, turnabout is fair play after all."
Meg stretched against him and murmured, "You're right. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander," to which Ben replied, "I think you have that backwards, Ma'am," as he drew her close for another kiss.
They made love again, there in the nest by the fire, gently and slowly. When Meg fell asleep, Ben carried her to her bed without waking her and settled her once again in the protective circle of his arms; but he laid awake for a long time.
When he awoke again the room was bright with sunlight reflected off the snow. He was startled to turn and find that Meg was not there beside him, and he got up and pulled on his clothes before going in search of her. He knew that he would face her with some trepidation. The events of the past night had by no means been a dream, and there would be consequences to aired and discussed. And at some very deep level, where he could not examine it, he dreaded another change of heart like the one she had experienced after the capture of Adrian Bolt.
He found her in the kitchen dressed in her terry bathrobe. The teakettle was beginning to whistle, and a pot of oatmeal was simmering. Meg was laying out bowls, cups and saucers, and glasses of orange juice, on a tray - two of everything, he could not help noticing. His heart lifted when she turned and smiled at him, then came into his arms and held her face up for a kiss.
"You slept late," she said finally. "I was going to bring you breakfast in bed."
"I vote for breakfast now, bed later," he replied.
They lingered over their tea in the pleasant kitchen. Finally Ben knew he had to speak. "Meg, do you" he drew a breath. "If you... That is, do you regret what happened last night? I know you said it could never happen." Though normally so articulate, he stopped and looked down at his empty cup, unable to continue.
Meg looked at him over the rim of her own cup, then put it down carefully before beginning. "Ben, I don't regret it. I don't regret it now, and I won't regret it ever." She appeared to be gathering her thoughts as she took another sip of tea. "There are going to be consequences. You know that as well as I do. But I'd like to think," and here she paused and laid her hand on his, "that we could deal with them together." She noticed that his eyes had begun to show that anxious look again. She stood up and went around the table to where he was sitting, put her arms around his neck, and kissed the top of his head. Then she whispered "We're tough. We can do it." She rubbed her cheek against his, then drew a finger down it and whispered again, "Besides which, you could do with a shave."
He stood up and looked down at her, smiling again, and rubbing his cheek with his thumb. "I suppose I could," he observed.
"Well, I'm going to go have a shower," she replied. "Or should it be a bath? Either way, there's room for two..."
He laughed and replied, "I'll join you after I put these things away," as she left the kitchen.
When he emerged into the living room, she was still there, peering intently out of the front window.
"What is it, Meg?"
"Well, there must be over three feet of snow out there," she replied. "And there's a man standing up at the top of the street. Look there. He's too far away for me to see him very well, but I can't help thinking he's dressed like a Mountie."
Ben followed where her finger was pointing. His sharper eyes could make out the figure clearly, dressed in a brown fur anorak and sturdy boots, the sun glinting off a badge at the front of his fur hat. "You can see him?"
"Well, not very well. I don't have my glasses, and there's the snow," she replied. "But yes, I can see him. Do you know who he is?"
"I do know who he is, Ben replied. He may be one of the consequences we have to talk about. But for now, it's not important." And they turned together from the scene outside, where the sun gleamed on the fresh snow.