The Boat   by Mona Morstein Author's warning: Mona Morstein adamantly states that any reader MUST be over 18 years old to read her stories and if someone DOES read her story they are agreeing to that point and ARE over 18. If you ARE over 18, ENJOY; if you are NOT, then other authors have stories you can read and enjoy.   Chapter Eleven In the morning Steed was still sick and miserable, but firmly requested that he be washed and shaved before traveling. Emma took him by wheelchair into the bathroom and there helped him sponge himself clean, shampoo his hair, and shave him. Dr. Kinney had told them to not touch the bandage and wrapping around his chest; the bullet wound was not allowed to get wet at all. Back in his bedroom Emma had to help Steed dress, which Steed wasn't happy about, though he acknowledged his weakness and the limitations of movement his strained back muscle caused him. Emma put two sweaters on over his shirt and was reaching for a third when Steed held up his hand and shook his head that two was enough. They made their good-byes to Dr. Kinney, satisfied in the knowledge imparted by Finster that the good doctor would be well compensated by the Ministry for his tending Steed. Stoner stayed behind to organize the retrieval of the bodies and the boat, while the rest of them drove back to the helicopter. Gambit, as pilot, flew to Inverness where they boarded a plane which Gambit also flew, landing on the Ministry's airfield. Through-out his travels, Steed lay bundled up wearing a coat and scarf, chilly, tired, and stiff, sleeping most of the way, his head resting either against a window or on Emma's shoulder. When they finally arrived north of London in the early afternoon, Finster went back to the city while Purdey and Gambit took Emma and Steed to their home. They arrived there and saw two shadowy figures sitting in a dark car parked in their driveway; until the Ministry was assured from its research on the case that Steed was absolutely in no more danger, two agents were stationed outside Steed's house to protect him twenty-four hours a day. Steed could walk from the car to the house, but barely. Emma, Gambit and Purdey were able to drag Steed upstairs and sit him on the bed in the master bedroom. He croaked his thanks and Emma shook their hands and they left. Emma turned and stared at her husband, wrapped in a coat, scarf, two layers of clothes, breathing heavily, and evidently exhausted. He looked up at her. "Finally," he said, smiling, his face years younger from palpable relief even in his illness. "Home." "Home," she repeated. Steed didn't even bother struggling to take off his attire. He just held out his left arm to her. "Sorry to be such a burden, my dear, but would you mind removing some of these clothes? I've decided to call off the trip to the arctic." Emma smiled. It was so good to hear his bantering, even if it was through a voice rough and hoarse. She came to his side. "Maybe we should just leave you in them and have you sweat it out." Steed raised his eyebrows. "I should very much like it to sweat out on its own. It's hot enough in here to poach an egg." Emma ran her hand through his hair and then helped him out of his coat, his scarf, his two sweaters, his shirt, shoes, socks and trousers. She noticed the bandages around his feet and wondered again how he had cut the bottom of both of them. She helped him into his own pair of pajamas and then opened up the bed. He lay down on his side facing her and she covered him up. "Should I get the electric blanket from the closet?" she asked. "No. But a bowl of soup, a cup of tea, and thee would be very nice. Not necessarily in that order." "Right," Emma laughed. "I'll be back with the food and drink in a moment." "I'm quite sorry you've descended to the arduous role of nursemaid. I hope to recover quickly now that I'm home and return to my robust and independent self." Emma looked at Steed tenderly. She knelt by his face touching his forehead; Steed closed his eyes at the contact. "Steed…" she said, then leaned over and kissed his brow. "I don't mind playing nurse with you, if you promise--" Promise. That promise to come home to her. He had come home to her. Her breath caught for a moment at the stark nature of the terrible last two weeks as they relived themselves inside her, and then she forced herself to joke, "if you assure me that you'll play doctor with me when you can." Steed opened his eyes, the most intense longing pouring out of them. He reached out with his left arm and held her shoulder, "Emma… if you only knew how much I yearn for that… can't think of anything else… oh, I will play doctor with you as soon as I can, you can be assured of that. Oh, yes indeed." She thought she heard him cackle in anticipation. "Oh, dear! Sounds like I had better check with a solicitor about malpractice insurance." Steed's eyebrows raised high. "I say, there will be no 'malpractice' about it!" Emma laughed and lightly ran her finger down his nose. "I'll get you that soup and tea." She returned twenty-five minutes later with a tray on which sat a tea pot, a bowl of soup and slice of bread, and something that made Steed's eyes narrow suspiciously. He pointed with an out-stretched arm as she neared him. "Is that one of those disgusting green drinks that Hal feels compelled to give me? I'm trying to recover here; being poisoned won't help." Emma rolled her eyes as she put the tray on the night table beside him. "Stop being such a big secret agent baby. You know they work wonders on you. Honestly, you've taken them for years; one would think you'd just take them quietly by now." She held up the glass near Steed's crumpled face. "Got the recipe from Hal himself, but added something to make it a bit more palatable." She pushed it towards him. "Trust me." With a sigh of resignation, Steed sat up in the bed placing pillows behind him. Taking the dark green beverage from his wife, he smelled it then looked at her warily and asked, "Are you sure it's safe to drink?" Emma said nothing as she stood scowling with her arms crossed in front of her, tapping her foot. Steed affected an abashed attitude and saying, "Yes, dear," he sipped on the drink, self-initiating the act of gagging, yet, he didn't gag. Confused, he examined the glass and said, "Hey, this doesn't taste that bad. What's the special ingredient?" He switched from tiny sips to great gulps. "Brandy," Emma said, putting the tray's legs down and then placing it over Steed's lap. "Brandy! Why didn't Hal ever think of that?" He put the empty glass down on the tray and hit his chest with his fist "Ah!," then raised a finger in the air. "Publican! Another, if you please." "Eat the soup and drink your tea, and then we'll see. I don't think becoming plastered is what Dr. Kinney meant when he told me you should 'see your general practitioner' as soon as you got home." They smiled at each other, so delighted to be back together, to be having fun, engaging in quick and silly repartee. An ambience of peace and gratitude surrounded them, an aura of love and joy encircled them, an essence of adoration and companionship entwined their hearts together, making them unbreakable, unable to be severed by anything or anyone. "Emma…" Steed said. "Lovely lady…" "Eat," she nodded at the food. "Get well. I love you." "A pre-meal toast if ever I heard one," Steed said, lifting up his spoon over the soup, "Hmm, minestrone." Emma fed Steed two health drinks a day, not deigning to "just leave out the greenery and leave in the brandy" as he requested. He had a small appetite which she fed with soups, mostly, and baked potatoes and some fish or chicken occasionally. She gave him herbal teas and the herbal capsules that Hal had stocked their drawers with in case of cold or flu. Steed still mainly slept trying to recover his strength, let his bruises lighten, and his abrasions heal. He was weak, though his state of utter exhaustion gradually remitted. Emma changed the bandages on his chest daily, conscientiously refusing to show any dismay over the fact that Steed had come so very close to being shot to death. If the angle had been just one degree less… His feet healed well. She massaged his strained back muscle daily, working over the layers of bandaging circling his torso to keep his bullet wound gauze in place. He enjoyed the heat packs she placed over the sore muscle. Soaking in a hot bathtub once or twice a day, protecting his chest wound from getting wet, greatly eased Steed's stiff and sore muscles and bones. A couple of times Emma found him asleep in the tub, and she stood there staring at Steed for several minutes, unable to get her fill of seeing him alive, before she gently woke him and helped him get out and dry off. Steed's Ministry physician visited him, did a thorough examination, and then just encouraged them to keep doing what they were. It was a virus that had infected Steed, he diagnosed, and just had to run its course. He brought a bag of blood in a cooler and a stand and gave Steed a pint of blood, which Steed believed made him feel better. Steed's dentist made a house call, too, and examined the empty socket in his mouth and his jaw, telling Steed he'd need to get in to his office when he felt better to have a bridge inserted where his tooth was gone. "I hope you've been chewing on the other side of your mouth," he said. "Don't want to set up an infection in there." "I have," Steed assured him. "Hurts too much to eat on the left side." "Yes, no doubt. Well, let's see, what is that? Your second tooth knocked out? It's not so bad, you still have thirty to go," the dentist said and then coughed uncomfortably when Emma and Steed's response to his quip was heavy silence combined with steely eyes. He assured them that it would take a number of weeks before Steed would be able to fully open up his mouth, but that no serious damage to his jaw joints had occurred with the dislocation, and then left, hurrying away awkwardly. Emma spent the next several days calling everyone and sharing the good information that Steed was home, alive and well, though he had caught a flu. He was too tired to receive visitors. Frankly Emma wasn't interested in seeing anyone, either. She thrived on it just being the two of them, quietly alone, and friends and relatives, knowing their frequent need for privacy, courteously stayed away. Steed's fever broke on the fourth night, in a soaking sweat that drenched his clothes and woke him up complaining "Ug." Emma stirred next to him. "What is it, Steed?" "My fever's finally broken, in a very wet manner. I have to change my pajamas. Go back to sleep." "Need any help?" "No. I can manage." And he could. However much he decried the odious taste of Hal's little concoctions, Steed could not deny the strengthening effect they had on him. His legs were stronger, well, at least strong enough to get him to the bathroom --where he dried himself off, waiting to bathe until the morning-- and back into the bedroom without him sinking to the floor. He put on dry pajamas, and returned to bed laying on his side facing his wife's sleeping form, letting his hand lightly follow the contours of Emma's naked body. Soon, he hoped so very soon, he would be able to… Steed sighed. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. Whoever had written that knew the meaning of the frustration coursing through Steed; but he just had to be patient with his body. It had saved his life, and been put through the wringer in the process. He was older, his body was older, his recovery time was slower; it was a fact that bothered him a great deal. But, with his fever over his appetite would return, and he would gain back the weight he had lost. Therefore, he would regain his virility quicker and once he healed down there... he would be able to make love, sweet love, to Emma. Right now his groin was still so very sore… too sore… and still swollen and bruised… it had been a very long time since Steed had been kneed in the groin that hard… he hoped that was the last time… he hated how it prevented him from joining with Emma… Yet, Steed Hmm'd to himself, there were always other options… Looking at Emma, her beautiful face in perfect repose asleep, feeling her soft and fine hair, running his hand down her spritely figure, Steed couldn't stop himself from kissing her deeply on her lips as his hands caressed her smooth body. Emma woke up a second time to Steed kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her neck, her lips, thrusting his tongue into her opening mouth… "Steed?" she said, excited, breaking away, a look of avid expectation on her face. "Not yet…" he replied. "But, I think I ought to tender a heartfelt apology for waking you up, twice now, tonight. If you don't mind." Emma smiled. "I don't mind at all, but what about--" "No 'buts' in the bedroom." Steed brought his mouth to her breast, licking, sucking, biting, his hands moving all over her body. After some time, Emma had no idea how long, lost in the sensations Steed engendered in her, Steed moved to her other breast and repeated his stimulatory actions. After bringing his head back up to Emma's face they shared a round of ardent kisses, and then Steed slid lower down her body, his tongue scouting a trail of passion which Emma eagerly followed. As he reached between her legs, he spread them apart and then licked, bit, sucked, and thrust his tongue over her clitoris and as deeply inside her as he could go, slipping a finger inside her at times as well. When Emma's squeaks of impending climax grew he stopped, causing her to settle down a bit, and then he brought her an even higher peak again, stopping again, until the third time she held his head in place, her hands directing him to take her to the ultimate of pleasurable zeniths. Emma arched her back and shook as she orgasmed, her moans loud and urgent, and Steed kept licking and thrusting, drawing out her response over and over. When Emma was finally done, Steed kissed her pelvis and returned to her side in the bed. "Do you accept my apology?" he asked Emma as she launched herself on him and kissed him a hundred times, hugging him as deeply as she was able to, for as long as she was able to, making sure she didn't encircle him around his wound, and fighting her tremendous urge and her hands' natural inclination to enter the front of Steed's pajama bottoms. "Yes, yes, of course I do. Now, wake me up in an hour and apologize for doing so again, okay?" she asked. "As you wish, my dear," he agreed and they fell asleep, a jumble of limbs wrapped around each other. Research found the boat that Steed had been a prisoner on was registered to Mrs. Gladis Pittsworthy of Stromness, Orkney Islands. Espionage sent a man up to her rural home to pay a visit on the pretence of being a visitor from Australia just wandering around, having lost his way on the road. Lonely, she let him in, welcoming his youthful, fresh-faced company. He offered to help her with some of her farm chores for a meal and she agreed. He stayed two days, long enough to draw out her conversation about her grandchildren and "the important business she had raised them to do in London." She was so proud of them. Skillfully he probed her story, and learned about her daughter and the scientist in jail. He agreed with her that it was terrible they hadn't been able to be together… (the scientist had been rich, she said)… he agreed that the authorities sometimes meddled unnecessarily in people's private affairs, causing dreadful unhappiness… he nodded when she avowed her would be son-in-law was just a scientist and didn't need to be arrested by that horrid man. That terrible man. Well, her grandchildren had been taught to take care of… she paused, and then added she should be hearing from them any day now. He smiled back when she just stopped talking and poured some more tea. Later, he held her hand and patted her shoulder when she wept for her poor daughter. He tsked-tsked over the fact that she was now alone herself, with no family in the world except her grandchildren. No, she had never told the story about her daughter to anyone else, people being such nosy busy-bodies, but he seemed like such a nice man… and was so helpful with the chores. He left on the third day, and when the neighbors didn't see her for several days, they investigated and found her dead in her bed, of an apparent heart attack, the almond smell of cyanide no longer on her lips. He returned to London and reported all the information he had gathered--the names of the daughter and the scientist, and the names of the children. Research tore through that information looking for any other possible threat to Steed, but none at all was found. With the grandmother's unfortunate "heart attack," and the scientist in prison suffering a almond scented sudden heart attack as well, the case file of Steed's Unknown Factor experience was closed. He was safe again, and would be welcomed back to the Ministry as soon as he returned from medical leave. The protective agents outside his house were called off permanently. After the fever broke, Steed spent some part of each day walking around the house, climbing up and down the stairs repeatedly until he grew fatigued and returned to bed to rest. Emma cajoled him to the dentist and he got his bridge inserted in one marathon visit. The dentist had to deeply anesthetize Steed to perform the dental work because that enabled the dentist to open Steed's mouth further than it could go without causing him considerable pain. The stress to his healing jaw put him back in bed for two whole days with ice packs over both sides of his face, and his strongest pain pills swallowed willingly. Aside from that, Steed's appetite did improve and Emma gladly served him larger meal portions. During the nights he began to suffer from nasty dreams --waking up choking in fear of drowning, of being lost forever in the grey-black, of dying of cold with Emma just a few feet away from him; and, seeking comfort, Steed roused Emma from sleep and then proceeded to sincerely apologize to her. Ten days after Steed and Emma had returned home, in the mid-morning, with Steed still in bed slumbering, Emma answered the doorbell. It was Finster, slightly bowed and nervous, with two manila envelopes in his hand. He held them out to her. "Irregular. Very irregular," he said as Emma took the parcels. "Thank you, Mr. Finster," she replied. "Give one to Steed, mind you. He'll need to check for accuracy." "Right." Finster looked at Emma with surprisingly firm eyes as he spoke, "Mrs. Steed, we at the Ministry feel that it would be best for Steed to not know that you read this report. That would make him quite irritated with several department Heads, which would not be… conducive to the Ministry's best interests. We would appreciate it if you would burn the papers after reading them." "I had no intention of letting Steed know. I'll take care of it." "Also, we expect you to live up to your side of our little bargain. You shall not attempt to sway Steed from remaining at the Ministry. No matter what you discover in the report. Do please remember that this last episode had nothing to do with Steed's present work, but was an odd and unforeseeable act of revenge by people so unknown and so far on the periphery of a past crime that it was impossible for us prevent its occurrence. However much that pains us to say. The likelihood of any other such attack on Steed is incalculable, as determined by Analysis. He is invaluable to the Ministry, should be running it in the next few years, and you did promise not to interfere." "Right," Emma said curtly, just wanting the man to go. "So, you do agree, Mrs. Steed?" Emma wavered a moment, wondering what type of appalling story she held in her hand. But, then she realized she really had no ability to make Steed leave the Ministry, anyway… well, at least she didn't think she did. Throughout all his injuries and nightmares since they'd been married, Emma had rarely brought up the subject, and had never attempted voraciously to convince him to part from his work. And this episode wasn't a fair reason to push Steed down that retirement path, anyway; it had been three ghouls from his past, probably related to an arrest he hadn't even given a second thought to once it had been over. Emma had married him knowing who he was and what he did; if she turned grey early because of it, she could not fairly blame Steed. However, on the other hand, if she was pregnant… she noticed Finster staring at her, and just to get him to leave she nodded once and answered. "I agree," she said. Finster left and Emma went back upstairs to check on Steed, placing one of the sealed manila envelopes on the night table. He was still asleep, his wavy hair all mussed, his blue cotton pajamas covering the body she longed to caress; if he didn't wake her up and apologize to her in the middle of the night, he probably wouldn't need to sleep so late in the day. But who was she to complain? The thought passed through Emma's mind that he was probably first waking up in the middle of the night due to nightmares, and then waking her to ease his mind, but she didn't pursue that line of reasoning. Emma returned downstairs and went into the large and clean kitchen, decorated in yellow and white, where she brewed a pot of herbal tea, thinking that if she was pregnant maybe she should avoid coffee, and toasted a couple of pieces of bread, buttering them slowly, every now and then looking at the large envelope sitting on the kitchen table. When the tea was steaming in her cup and the bread was cooling down, Emma bit her lower lip and brought her food and drink to the table. She sat down and pausing for just one more moment she withdrew the papers from the envelope. It saddened her that she had to be so clandestine regarding Steed, reading his report behind his back. But of all the things Emma loved about Steed, there was one thing she hated yet bore with a stoicism derived from sheer necessity, and that was his silence about himself. About his scars, his past, his work, experiences like this. He would never tell her; not out of rudeness or embarrassment, she knew. But because he just… couldn't. Thirty years of keeping secrets had made him a very secretive man. One time, just after they had made love when colleagues, so many years ago, she had lain next to his naked body and traced her finger along one of the three long, thin scars cut across his chest. "Steed," she had asked, "how did you get these scars?" Steed had looked at his chest, his peaceful post-coital mien transformed into one of far-away thought, and Emma had seen, or imagined, his soft grey pupils drift off unfocused into a haunted past. "Er, uh, a long time ago," he had stuttered. Emma had been surprised by Steed's stammer, his speech normally as smooth as silk. "Yes, they do look old. But, how did you get them?" Steed had looked at her, his mouth moving slowly like a fish, but no words had come out. Then he had looked away, and closed his eyes. "Nee San," he had said and then had gotten out of bed, wrapped a bathrobe around himself and descended the curving stairs to his kitchen. Twenty minutes later he had come back up with a tea tray with teapot, cups and scones. "Tea?" he had asked, and Emma saw a pleading in his eyes. Emma had answered the only possible word there was to answer. "Tea," she nodded. And she hadn't asked about his scars again. Or his past. Oh, she knew quite a bit about his childhood (his siblings had been helpful there as well as his own anecdotes). She knew Steed had been in the war, and had done… something illicitly after the war… and then had rejoined British Intelligence in his late twenties. She knew he had been captured by the Chinese and had spent a hellish time in the prison compound Nee San before returning home. Then more years in British Intelligence overseas, mostly, until he returned to England when he was about forty. She knew he had worked with Dr. Keel, Mrs. Gale, then had joined the Ministry and worked with herself, Tara King, and now Purdey and Gambit. Sketches. Outlines. That was what she knew. Very little was filled in, colored in, complete. Gradually she had had some little success with Steed telling her about his dreams; oh, not the exact specifics of the subject matter, of course, but slightly informative statements like "I was back at Nee San," or, "Someone betrayed me," or "That time I was shot three times," or "Naval battle in the war," or just the one word edict "Wales." It wasn't much, but it was enough, enough to have her feel a part of his life and try to comfort him, and enough for him to feel that in some important yet trivial way, he was, for once, not shoving his dear wife aside due to his need for privacy. It was a compromise that worked for both of them. If it was all Emma could expect, she would be content that at least it was something. The rest, though, was silence. She knew it was an agent's wife's lot to live with silence, but even still… sometimes it was just too quiet…too still… like a marriage built on an ancient battlefield. If he would share with her what he could, he would find he had nothing to fear from her. He would never tell her about the last ten days. Emma let a deep breath out and began reading. She kept reading until she was done with the whole report: Research's explanation for who the people involved were and how the whole scenario had been planned; what the drug was the kidnappers had kept Steed insensible with; Analysis's description of the psychological portrait of the mother, her daughter, and her three grandchildren; and Steed's very clear and detailed account of all that he had been through. All that he had been through. Steed. Kidnapped from the wine shop. Drugged for four days without food and hardly any fluids; four days! Then coming so near to being killed on the boat. Swimming the sea in a storm; he swam the sea! The rocky wall, where his face was bruised and abraded, climbing up and then sitting out a horrible night on the outcropping, that's how he had torn his feet, pulled his back muscle… his sinking under the water… he had come so close to drowning… so close… Emma read of his struggle up the hill, pushing himself in a mindless urge down the dirt road to reach the far cottage with the light shining through the window… She read of the kindness of the Donleavy's and their report of caring for Steed. How they found him… banging his head against the door, against the floor, frozen stiff. Banging his head against the door… Oh, God… Emma's stomach became a lump of clay, clogging up inside her. She read on. Steed's walk to Lochinver in the terrible weather… because he had been unable to wait to call her and tell her he was alive… that danger tickle saving his life, enabling him to turn out of the way of the fatal path of the bullet… getting angry and killing the two youths… Steed had finally gotten angry… He must get angry sooner than that, Emma thought, if it ever happens again… Please don't let it ever happen again… Steed's confrontation with the large youth… the terrible blows to his groin and his jaw… Bastard, Emma thought… and the fight by the cliff edge… saved by a grouping of cricket ball sized rocks and Steed's gift of unerring aim… or his luck… Steed pulling his dangling self back up over onto the ground… his collapse in the cold wind and rain… She had been warm at home, then, on her comfortable sofa… and he had been out fighting for his life… Emma kept reading. Steed's fuzzily recalled walk to Lochinver, and the MacDoran's story of them finding him, twenty feet from houses… from help… collapsed on the ground… bloody… hypothermic… once more so close to dying… His body just finally gave out, she thought… reached its limit… it had a limit… he was physically durable, he was mentally strong, but he wasn't indestructible, wasn't immortal… he had reached his limit… he could have died, he really could have died… The papers then covered Dr. Kinney's medical charting of Steed's condition when he was brought in and during the next two days until Emma arrived to reclaim her husband and take him home… Home. He had promised to come home. He had used his anger. He had turned her dirge into a love sonnet. It had taken everything he had, everything, but he had done it. Emma read the papers a second time. Her tea, unsipped, and her toast, untouched but for a preliminary bite, sat unnoticed before her. Emma read it all a third time, her outstanding and retentive mind committing the entire report word for word to memory, then she lit a match and burned the papers in the sink, washing the ashes down the drain. She stood at white tiled counter, looking out the window onto their large green lawn; she saw a rabbit huddled by a far stand of hedges. The sky was blue with large clouds moving quickly across it. Just another late autumn day, Emma thought. Steed is back and safe. Time to put it all behind. Move on. He's done it before, so many times; I've done it before. We've done it before. We'll just have to do it again. Let the healing of his injuries and my fears erase all the pain, accept all the silence, and in that way we will rekindle our happiness, that joyful warmth burning away the chill of the sea, the chill of the rain, the chill of a bed empty of an absent Steed… Emma wandered upstairs to their bedroom and sat at the table by the large window, staring at Steed, still sleeping, still weak… yet alive. He shouldn't be alive, Emma thought. Even with the luck, the fairy dust, his iron will, his fierce determination to survive, his powerful anger, his remarkable level of fitness… he shouldn't be alive. He should have died somewhere: killed on the boat, drowned in the sea, shot in the chest, tossed over the cliff edge, frozen to death… He shouldn't be alive. But he is. He survived; against all odds, exhausted, injured, frozen, he survived, as he's done all his life. Because he's lucky, because at birth he was sprinkled with fairy dust, because he is what can only be termed a truly amazing man. A truly unique and amazing man. One in a million. No, one in a nation. And he was hers. She loved him so much, and to see him hurt, to read of his dire struggles to live, caused her insides to shrivel into a wrinkly mass of vicarious pain, poignant sympathy, and relentless worry, modified only by her tolerant acceptance that she had sworn to love Steed knowing full well this risk existed. The risk that he might be killed any day, by a host of enemies that if written down would fill a phone book. Emma had known the rules of their marriage at the start, and didn't really have the right to insist that the rules needed to be changed. Yet… She hadn't yet told Steed she believed she was pregnant. Her period should have begun two days ago, and it hadn't. The nausea was still there, not too bad, merely a bit of gastric upset with and an unpleasant metallic taste in her mouth. Nothing she couldn't ignore. She could still eat, and hadn't vomited at all. She had made a doctor's appointment for Thursday, four days away. She wouldn't tell Steed until her suspicions were positively confirmed. And then? Steed, able to adapt to any situation in a nanosecond, allowing him to survive so handily the threats of a drugged stupor, drowning, nasty attacks, gunshots --what would he say to adapting to fatherhood? And if he did greet that news with a wide smile of delight, would he then adapt to and survive the next mad scientist, the next deranged criminal, the next act of revenge long enough to even see his child grow up? And if he didn't greet the news with a smile…? Emma wanted to keep the baby. She wanted to be a mother, carry her and Steed's child and raise that wonderful proof of their love. And she wanted to raise the child in tandem with Steed. She had known when they had gotten back together that Steed would stay working for the Ministry, even though any need for the Ministry's very considerable paychecks had become entirely superfluous. Steed's investments, begun early in life from money earned mysteriously via, as he had told Emma, "rather rewarding youthful indiscretions," had, over the years in the capable hands of his family's financial advisor, grown to a substantial portfolio that had made him a rich man and easily able to support his home and elegant lifestyle. Until he had returned to England around thirty-nine years old, Steed's life in the field had put very little drain on his investments and they had swelled considerably even by that time, allowing him to return to Britain and begin a life of fine suits, champagne, and car collecting. Now, fifteen years later, his accounts even healthier, Steed had no financial need to work at all. Besides, Emma was a very wealthy woman in her own right; their combined estates ensured they could live out their lives without a monetary care in the world. So, why did Steed still work for the Ministry? Why did he still claim field agent status five years over the normal age most field agents desisted from such strenuous commissions? It required Steed to train regularly and with an intensity he hated to pass the every six month physical exams; and it was dangerous, very dangerous work. Getting injured at times was inevitable, and Steed acknowledged it was so much harder and time-consuming to recover. Where other men Steed's age, and certainly with Steed's station and wealth, retired and spent their days smoking cigars and getting fat, Steed was set on breaking all the age barriers previously established at the Ministry. What his resistance was to just taking over running the whole organization, like they wanted him to, and letting others toil in the field, she just did not know. Once Emma had actually spoken to Steed about his work. She had asked him earlier this year as he lay in bed, after he had sprained his back and couldn't bend forward or back for a couple of weeks, why he didn't just… give it up. The question had sprang out her mouth before she even realized it. "I don't want to 'just give it up'," Steed had replied. Emma persisted, knowing it was a role of devil's advocacy, but just needing to hear Steed's fervent commitment to his job being renewed. "But, you've served your country, Steed, for almost thirty years. No one would fault you for retiring now." "Emma, "serving my country" as you say is not just what I do, it's who I am," he answered. "You knew that about me when we first met, and it is no different all these years later. I plan on working as long as I am possibly able. It's just too much a part of me to up and quit." Emma had turned her head away and said nothing. Steed's words were dialogue she could have written for him if this had been a play, she knew him that well. She had expected no less from him, could have expected nothing else, yet, a tiny part of her hadn't been able to deny her dissatisfaction with his decision. Steed's voice had floated over to her. "Don't hate me for this. It's what I do. It's who I am." Then he had added, a bit softer, "I don't work everyday. There's still plenty of time for us to be together. That's important to me, too, you know that." Emma had turned back to him and smiled. "I know, I know. But I don't always have to like the fact that you are still with the Ministry, and your work is so fraught with danger." Steed had reached for a glass of water on his night table, grimacing at the stretching of his injured low back. "I don't always like it myself." Then he had redirected the conversation as he did so masterfully, so naturally. "However, you don't see me asking you to give up your guest lecturing at colleges and universities on subtracting fractions, or whatever advanced mathematical subjects you discourse upon." "My lecturing is not quite as dangerous as facing diabolical masterminds." "So you say. That chalk dust is deadly to the lungs. I'll be out collecting odd and deadly inventions and inventors a long time after you develop emphysema, my dear." What could she say to that? She had laughed, kissed him and let the subject go. It's who he is, Emma repeated to herself. His work, his silence, it's who he is. They had both gotten used to the uncertainty of working as colleagues. Figuring out when one or the other had run into some sort of trouble when they had parted to investigate different aspects of the case, immediately acting to ensure the other's safety had been nerve-wracking, but exciting. They had endless confidence back then, so sure of themselves, of each other, of their guaranteed success. Somewhere along the line, nine years later, Emma had lost that innate sense of assuredness. Maybe she was older and had seen more of life to know that things did not always work out; maybe she was tired of seeing Steed occasionally come home achy, fatigued, bruised, injured; maybe she was tormented by Steed's frequent nightmares, the constant terrifying proof that the painful and dreadful experiences he went through affected him much more than he'd ever admit to anyone; maybe she just acknowledged her love for him was so encompassing she could never be so cavalier anymore about what he did and the risk it put him at. How Steed still had his assuredness, Emma just did not know… If she had her way Steed would stop working, would retire from the Ministry; at least from being a field agent. He was flirting with time anyway; if he wasn't so damn good and, frankly, inspirational, he'd never been able to continue active status. How much longer the Ministry would allow him to be out investigating bizarre doings was anyone's guess. Maybe she'd just have to put up with him working like he did for just another year or two. At some point they'd have to insist on him leaving the field, and though Emma looked forward to that day for her selfish purposes, she feared the effect on Steed. Maybe by then he'd be happy to just sit at a desk all day, directing Ministry operations from the heart of their covert Whitehall establishment. She hoped he would soon find fulfillment serving Queen and Country solely within the corridors of Whitehall. She hoped he'd be happy doing that, but she doubted it. She hoped nonetheless. And maybe, just maybe, if they had a child, he could channel "who he was" away from secret agent, to… father. Especially since they were actually going to have a baby. Steed was going to be a father. Emma looked at Steed, his facial bruises resolving into ugly yellow green confluent patches, his slow easy breaths putting her into a meditative state of relaxation. Would he be a good father? Make his child a priority? Put his hobbies and club on hold to spend time at home with his family? Would he take extra care in the field? Then Emma's mind, to relieve the tension of her serious cogitation, took a turn to the absurd. Would Steed faint if the baby threw up on his suit? Would he stroll down the road pushing a perambulator? Would he change a nappie? Would he be able to calmly handle baby food spread out all over his immaculately clean kitchen floor? Steed was marvelous with children, she had to admit that. All of his nieces and nephews thrived on his company, always had, and his grand-nieces and nephews as well. Steed was every child's mystifying, intriguing fairy tale figure: tall, handsome, strong, silent, mysterious yet kind, playful, silly, understanding, and wise. Instinctively children knew he would and could protect them. He was approachable. Children generally adored Steed, and she knew he very much enjoyed that, was rather prideful of the fact, honestly. But, then after a couple of hours at the social gathering, Emma and Steed would leave the children and return home to their own lives. How would Steed do around their child twenty-four hours a day? She just didn't know. He would be fifty-two years old when the baby was born. She would be thirty-eight. Old for sudden, unplanned parenthood. But they were both healthy and they had the capability to offer a child a marvelous upbringing. Emma reviewed the report again in her mind's eyes, seeing each paragraph, itemizing every part of Steed's ten days. She wished he would stop working. She wished he would retire. She hoped she could maintain the agreement she had made with Finster, and now regretted her acquiescence. Maybe just a little touch of pressure, something subtle and barely perceptible to have Steed consider retiring would be alright. After all, Finster and the Ministry weren't married to him, weren't pregnant by him. It was clearly, blatantly unfair to keep her committed to a vow made solely to read about what had happened in her own husband's life. Maybe she'd just toss the question out to Steed once more… they would never had to know.. But, if he didn't retire, and he wouldn't, she'd be there with him, making the most of their life together, their long life together --she reassured herself-- because she loved him so very, very much. Her man, so kind and gentle, so tender, easy-going and friendly, so silent, and so deadly. She hated what he did, how it affected him, haunted him; but she loved him so very much. Whatever happened, whatever choices were made, they would always be together. Their love would keep them together. Emma got up from her chair and tiptoed to the bed. Kicking off her sandals, she climbed into it still dressed and scooted under the covers. She pressed herself tightly against Steed's back and delicately slithered one arm under Steed's torso; draping her other arm over him she hugged him as he slept, laying her leg over both of his. After a few minutes Emma couldn't help herself and she began kissing and nibbling the nape of Steed's neck and his ear. That had the expected result of waking Steed up, slowly and pleasantly, and he grabbed hold of Emma's clasped hands in front of him, lifting them to his mouth and kissing them. "I hope you're my wife and not the maid," he murmured. Emma drew her arm out from under Steed and pushed him down onto his back. She smothered him with a kiss, thrusting her tongue deep inside his mouth, which opened as widely as Steed was able to move his jaw, running her hands over his face, under his pajama top, and, mischievously lightly, so lightly over his groin. Then holding his wrists down by the side of his head, she bestowed his face with kisses before returning to his mouth again, her tongue skimming around his lips then reinserting itself deeply into his mouth as her lips crashed down on his. She maintained that embrace for over a minute and then broke away. Steed's eyes were rather glazed over. When they refocused and he saw Emma laying over him he said, "Yup, you're my wife." "And don't you forget it," she playfully warned. "Fear not, Emma dear, it is emblazoned on my heart and soul, and I've written it in a little notebook I keep in my study desk, just for backup remembrance." Emma smiled down at him and then lightly placed her hand under his pajama bottoms resting her palm on his briefs over his groin. "Heal up quicker," she pleaded. "I want to wake you up and apologize. This one-sided exchange is just not fair." "Well, I want to…" Steed answered, putting his mouth up against her ear and whispering in it exactly what he wanted to do, how often, and in what positions. When he pulled his head back, their eyes were glowing. They kissed and then Steed rolled Emma over onto her back, lifting her top up over her head and unsnapping her bra and removing it. "What are you doing?" she asked Steed. "Apologizing," he said, as he pulled her pants down and off her legs. "For what? I've been up for hours, Mr. Sleepy Head," she laughed. Steed pursed his lips together in thought as he dropped her underwear to the floor. "For…" and he smiled and lifted his eyebrows high as an idea presented itself to him, "not healing quicker." "That is a grievous sin," she agreed, as he lay over her and began kissing her small breasts, her nipples suddenly raised and firm. "Indeed. Inexcusable. Perhaps though, I can atone for such a reprehensibly slow recuperation." "Oh, I don't know if I can forgive --Ooh--" Emma said, as Steed's mouth engulfed her breast and his hand began caressing and probing between her eagerly spreading legs. "On second thought…" Emma panted. Some rapturous minutes later, amid a fervent cacophony of moans and gasps, Emma forgave him wholeheartedly. Chapter Twelve Emma returned home Thursday in the late afternoon thankful that she had not driven off the road or into another car in her dazed mental state. She was pregnant, no doubt about it. Her doctor appointment had finally arrived and the blood work and his examination had confirmed it. She was pregnant. She was going to have a baby. She was pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. How Emma had noticed stop lights, how she had found her way back home, she had no idea. She had no real memory of driving, but then there she was, parked in their driveway by the front door, car turned off, home. Home. Steed was home. She had to tell Steed she was pregnant. She was pregnant. They were going to have a baby. Emma sat in the car for some minutes until she brought herself out of her distracted astonishment. She looked in the small rear mirror and used her fingers to brush her hair into place. A few wrinkles, she thought, around the eyes, but I'm not too old, not too old to have a baby. A baby. With Steed. Emma smiled, her even row of white teeth reflected back to her. Getting out of the Lotus, holding her hat in place to protect it from a sudden gust of wind, she walked over the gravel of the drive to the front door and let herself in. Calling out "Steed" she wondered where he was. "Hello, lovely lady," Steed answered, sticking his head out from his study. "You left early this morning." Emma hung up her coat and hat, smoothed out her blue dress, and then walked down the hall to her husband, dropping her handbag on a step of the stairway. Steed had still been asleep when she had left the house. They kissed and then Emma said, "Yes, well, I had some errands to attend to and an early appointment to make." "Appointment? What sort of appointment? Look, I found these tickets to the symphony tonight. Do you want to go?" Steed had been home two weeks, and he looked remarkably better from when he had first arrived. His face was almost entirely healed, though his jaw was still considerably restricted in its opening. The skin on his feet was whole, and the bullet wound was scarring over thickly as it healed. His energy was growing daily, and he had taken to getting dressed each morning in trousers and shirt and sweater, walking around for awhile outside, if the weather wasn't too inclement, sometimes leading one of his horses. His back muscle was much less painful. "Are you sure you have the energy? It would be a late night," Emma asked, glad for the respite of having to figure out just how to tell Steed her news. She had not brought it up before to him, wanting to be certain first. "Yes, I think I'll be fine. Not too strenuous listening to…" he studied the tickets, "Mendelssohn and Vivaldi. Now if it had been a Wagner or Bartok night…well, that would have been a different story entirely." Emma smiled. "Alright then, let's go. A return to culture will do us both good, no doubt." Steed put the tickets on top of his desk and then walked out to the hallway. "So, what was this appointment you had?" Emma panicked. "Er…" Steed gently stared at her, smiling in his patience. When Emma didn't say anything else he eventually asked, "Er…what?" "Well, er, I went to the doctor, actually…" I have to tell him, Emma thought. And now is as good a time as any. Yet, her larynx seemed frozen, a lump of ice down her throat. So she took a lesson from her husband and changed the conversation. "You know, I could use a cup of tea," she said and turned on her heels heading for the kitchen. Steed brought his eyebrows together in concern and dutifully followed his wife into the kitchen. "You went to a doctor? Why?" he asked. "In a moment, Steed, I'm dying of thirst," she said, filling the tea kettle with water, thus putting off the moment as long as she could. "Have a seat in the living room. I'll be right there." "But--" "Steed, please, I'll tell you just as soon as the tea is ready." This was not going at all how she wanted it to. Steed took a step away and then turned back. "Your health is fine, isn't it?" Well, nothing like being able to give yet not receive silence, Emma thought, breathing deeply. Yet, Steed had been through enough in the last weeks to not need to uselessly worry over her health. "Yes, yes, I'm fine." She smiled at him. "Go on, you, into the living room. I'll be right there." "I don't like this," Steed mumbled and left the kitchen. Emma made the tea, thankful for the few more minutes before she had to tell her husband they were going to have a baby. When the tea was done, which she didn't really want anyway, she brought it out to Steed, who was pacing around the room nervously, hunched over with his hands in his pockets, and put it on a side table next to the sofa. Emma poured tea into the two cups and held one up for Steed. "Tea? It's peppermint." "No. Answer," he replied. Emma left the teaware and sat down on the edge of sofa. Holding her arm out she nodded for Steed to come over. He eyed her warily as he walked to her but when she glanced down to the sofa he held her hand and obediently sat next to her. Steed spoke first, "Emma, I'm sorry to say, but I just don't have the nerves for this… Will you just please tell me what this secretive doctor appointment of yours was about? I'm not convinced you're healthy. Why else would you be so circumspect?" Emma could see the anxiousness etched into Steed's face. She reached up and held his cheek. "Steed, really, don't worry. I'm fine. But, I do have something to tell you…" "What is it?" he asked softly. Seconds passed, long seconds. Steed leaned his head nearer to Emma as she sat there, her mouth open to speak but nothing coming out. "I'm sorry, but my telepathic powers are at the dry cleaners today. Could you try to use regular old speech to communicate?" Steed asked, repeating, a bit more forcefully. "What is it? What's wrong?" Just tell him… "I'm pregnant," Emma blurted out. Steed's whole body turned to stone except for his eyes, which wandered all around their sockets until they finally settled again on Emma, who was biting her lower lip. Steed turned an ear towards his wife. "You're…?" "Pregnant," she answered, shrugging her shoulders quickly, and then forcing an uneven smile upon her lips as her eyelids raised high in worried consternation. Steed sat up straighter, his eyes staring blindly for a few seconds, stunned thoughtless. Then his mind turned back on and he looked at his wife. "Pregnant? As in… baby?" Emma nodded repeatedly. "Pregnant. Baby." Then she rapidly fluctuated between pointing to herself and Steed. "Parents." Steed's eyes widened. "Parents!" Emma, still nodding, confirmed, "Parents." Steed slowly turned and slouched against the sofa, his hands in his trouser pockets, speaking as if he was hypnotized. "Pregnant. Baby. Parents." Emma continued nodding her head. Steed glanced at her. "The last time we made love before I was kidnapped?" Emma nodded. "Hadn't been on your Pills?" Emma nodded and then switched and shook her head back and forth. "Forgot." Now Steed nodded his head and sat speechless for a minute, then asked, softly, "So, what are we going to do?" It was then that Emma loved being married to a secret agent, a man of action, who was programmed by nature and thirty years in the field to put aside the reason why something happened, to not endlessly blame and point fingers, but just adapt to each new situation he found himself in, realizing well, here he was now, this was what was going on, and let's try to figure out what had to be done about it. A few brief, non-accusatory inquiries just to understand what had happened and that was all; then Steed's basic personality kicked in and it was time to make a decision. To act. Emma placed a hand on Steed's chest and spoke at three hundred miles an hour. "Steed, I'm sorry. This wasn't quite how I imagined telling you, but… okay, I've told you. I'm pregnant. Remember when I was so busy that week, about a month ago, going to Cambridge and then having to zip down to London, leaving in the morning and returning so late at night, well, somehow I forget to take my Pills. I don't know how, it just happened. I know, I know, you'd think after thirteen years I wouldn't ever forget, but I did, unless somehow, truthfully, I wanted to forget, wanted to become pregnant, on the subconscious level or something, but I can't say that for certain. Anyway, remember that morning we made love, the morning of the day you… disappeared… it was so wonderful, and I accused you of cheating at those games, which you do, except I guess for chess, and since I hadn't taken the Pill for four days, because somehow I had forgotten to, it just amazes me still to think I forgot them, but I did, anyway, I got pregnant. I'm sorry, I really am, but I'm also so happy, I really want to keep the baby. I've always had dreams of being a mother, you know that, although I know we're both old to start raising a child, we've talked about it here and there in the past but never made a decision. And here it is in front of us. I'm pregnant, and we could do it, be good parents, if you, if you really want to, if you want to be a father." Steed listened to his wife with a growing amusement on his face. When she was done he smiled briefly, kissed her on the forehead, and stood up. "I think I'll have a cup of that tea, now," he said, but he walked to his liquor bottles and poured himself a brandy instead. Then he crossed to the living room window and stood by it looking outside in a sort of reverie. After a few minutes, Emma came and stood beside him. He was a silent man, her husband, but not now, it wasn't okay now; she needed to hear him share his view on this most important of matters. "Steed?" she asked, "what are you thinking?" A long pause. Steed sipped on his brandy, finishing it. He put the glass down on the curio cabinet next to him, and then put his hands back in his pockets. Still looking outside, Steed began to speak. "Do you know, Emma, I had given up ever marrying and having a family so long ago it seems like it was another world, like another life when I had those dreams inside of me. And, really, in some ways it was. Another world. A different life. A different me." Steed put a hand up and touched the window. "Sometimes even now I can't believe I'm married to you, that it really happened, it truly occurred. That it's not just an old, ancient dream from long ago I've imagined, a fantasy reality I've entered…" Steed turned to look at Emma. "But I haven't. It's real. You're real. Our life together is real. That long dead dream of mine rose like a Phoenix from ashes so dry and cold I thought they had all blown far away… the day you said you'd marry me…" He paused and looked down at the floor, somewhat embarrassed. "I'm not making much sense." "You are," Emma said, touching his arm. "Go on." But all the rare poetical prose Steed had uttered was gone and he was empty of anymore introspective accounts of himself. There was only one last thing to say. "Now that this… gift… is right in front of us… for whatever reason I don't know, but… well… Emma, I…I would love to have a child with you. As the cliché goes, it would be a dream come true," he said, and his vulnerable countenance was full of so much adoration for his wife that Emma flung herself into his arms and they stood hugging each other for a long time. Steed, then suddenly pulled back from their embrace. "The doctor said that it's safe for you to carry a child, didn't he?" Emma smiled. "You mean at my age? Yes, he did. Oh, I'll be thirty-eight when I deliver our baby, but I'm in very good health, and if I eat right and take care of myself, he assured me I should do just fine." Steed looked at Emma very seriously. "Emma, I'll be fifty-two. Old, and set in my ways." She ran her hand through his lush hair. "A young fifty-two. And we'll just make up new ways for you to get set in." "Ah, pregnancy and wisdom becomes you, my dear." They kissed deeply, their arms wrapped fully around each other. Then they nuzzled their cheeks together. "It will change our lives a great deal," Steed said. "All for the better." "I suppose we'll have to hire a nanny." Emma was quiet, letting Steed drift off into his meandering thoughts. "We've got plenty of spare bedrooms --one could be for the baby to sleep in and one could be a toy room. Or, maybe two could be used toy rooms. No need to not spoil the little one as much as possible." Emma thought, Finster and the Ministry be damned; the hell with that agreement. Ignoring her guilt for breaking the pact, she spoke her foremost concern, "Steed, will you keep working now?" Steed look at her in confusion. "Why wouldn't I?" "Because it's so dangerous. Because I want you to be here to raise our child," Emma hated herself for espousing her views as she was doing, knowing the futility of her wish that he would quit. "Can't you just give up working in the field? Now?" Steed returned his gaze out the window for awhile saying nothing. "Steed?" Emma asked. Steed strode away from the window, his hands once more in his pockets. Across the room from his wife he turned. "Emma, of course I plan to keep on working. We've discussed this before." "But, I wasn't pregnant before." "The wonder and beauty of that fact doesn't affect my decision to keep working. I'm sorry." "I am, too." "Does this ruin everything for you?" "No, it's what I expected. I just don't like it. I don't like it at all." "I know you don't. But it will be okay." "Will it?" Firmly. "Yes, it will." Emma looked at Steed, "I guess it will have to be." They were both silent then, lost in their own thoughts, until Steed held his arms out to her. "One more hug, if you please." Emma came to him, enfolding herself into his strong body. "I'm very good with children, you know," Steed said. "They like me." "I know. I know they do." They stayed together, rubbing their hands up and down each others' back. Steed then suddenly pulled back from their embrace a second time, and bore his eyes into Emma. "But, er, just because you're, er, that doesn't mean that we can't, can't, uh…" Emma, bringing her eyes together in feigned innocence, asked, "Can't…?" Steed stammered like he was completely tongue-tied, "Can't still, uh, I mean, uh, just because you're pregnant, uh going to have a baby…" Emma said nothing, allowing her husband to verbally fumble around the question she know he wanted to ask. "…it doesn't mean you shouldn't still be able to…uh…" Emma hated herself for taking advantage of Steed like this, but the opportunity was too wonderful to pass up. "to… play croquet? No, no, not at all. Perfectly safe for me to play," Emma said, clenching her teeth to prevent from laughing out loud. "No, no, not croquet. To, er, be safely able to… well…" "Ride a horse? Perfectly fine." Steed narrowed his eyes at her. "You know what I mean." "Go to an art museum? No problem. Enjoy an evening of dancing? That's fine." Steed's compressed his lips tightly together. "Before you make an entire mockery of me, let me just show you what I mean." With a swift and graceful movement, Steed swept his wife off her feet until she was laying in his arms. Emma's heart thrilled with the knowledge that Steed had finally healed enough for them to make love, but still she wasn't going to allow this moment of playful teasing to end so quickly. It was too ripe with potential indignity and was just what they needed to break the tension around Steed still working. As Steed began carrying her to the stairs, Emma asked, "to… go on a picnic? I asked and the doctor says it's okay." Steed began ascending the short curved flight of stairs to the second floor, carefully stepping over his wife's handbag. "Great." "to… travel to the Lake District and take an all day stroll? Could do it every weekend." "Marvelous." When they were nearing the top of the stairs, Emma grew very serious. She put her hand on Steed's shoulder and said in a steady, pointed tone, "However, Steed, there really is one definite danger that I must absolutely avoid." Steed stopped short on the stairs, his apprehensive face that of a sky diver whose chute did not unfold. Very gently he asked, "What is it?" Emma, in the most painful deadpan of her life, said, "I am not allowed to be in the same room with you if you ever decide to try and fix a toaster again." And then she burst out into what could only be called an explosive guffaw. Steed's cheeks bulged out as his face reddened. "For goodness sake, Emma, are you ever going to let me live that incident down? Will you never stop referring to it? Stop telling people at parties about it?" Emma giggled, "No. No. And no." Steed began climbing the stairs again, this time with much more urgency. "One little mechanical error over eight years ago…," he grumbled, then added in a purely sinister tone, "Then you shall pay for it, my dear. Oh, yes, I shall make you pay for it over and over… and over again." Emma's eyebrows lifted in delight. "Really?" She kissed his neck and then repeated like a mantra. "Toaster, toaster, toaster…" Steed remained quiet until he rather unceremoniously dumped Emma onto their bed. Emma's body prickled with electricity as she saw Steed begin to undress with a lustful leer pinned to his face. "To think I recovered my virility only to be the recipient of your mischievous and humiliating sense of humor…" he said, as he dropped his sweater and shirt to the floor and began removing his trousers. "No, you recovered to be the recipient of this," Emma stated once he was naked, and she grabbed Steed's arm and yanked him onto the bed, where he landed on his back. Emma lay over him, still fully clothed, marvelling that Steed's whole, muscular lean body was finally hers to touch and excite. He had kept his promise, he had come home to her, he was alive, and finally, finally, they could make love. Emma was almost giddy with joy. "The recipient of what?" Steed asked, pulling down her zipper. "Of my apology," Emma said. And with that she quickly disrobed and then as Steed sat up to take her in his arms, she pushed him down on the bed again. "First things first." Emma lay fully over Steed kissing him here and there all over his face, wanting to go slowly, arouse Steed gradually, taking him in her mouth and building him up to a precipice of heat before she brought him over the edge. But knowing that they could make love, and it had been too long, and he had almost died but he hadn't, he was here, alive, sturdy, handsome, the father of her child, and already feeling Steed raised and hard between her legs rubbing against her clitoris, his hands caressing her back, her buttocks, his hips already lifting rhythmically with the aid of his bent knees, hearing Steed groaning in need, Emma grew very moist, very urgent in her need, and she sat up straddling his hips. "Emma…" Steed croaked as she maneuvered herself over his penis and then grabbing hold of it, lowered herself so that it entered her fully. Emma lay down on top of Steed kissing him deeply. Their tongues entered each other mouths like snakes darting into ground holes seeking prey. Steed clasped the sides of her pelvis in a sure grip, directing her down and up as the movement of his hips drove himself in and out of her as quickly as he could. Emma sat up and took Steed's hands in hers, placing them down by his ears as she independently began the opposite matching of his rhythm; her sinking colliding with his rising, his sinking combined with her rising. Up and down they went again and again, the minutes passing at the speed of light, their hearts racing, inarticulate utterances accentuating their approaching climaxes. As Steed jerked and spasmed with ever increasing frequency he pulled his hands from Emma's grasp and placed one thumb over her clitoris while the other cupped a breast. Both their breaths shortened and quickened, moans and grunts emitted with their curt exhalations. In a delirious rush Steed gasped, "Emma, I can't…" and at that moment Emma felt that glorious wave of pleasure flow through her body, from deep in her womb flooding out to surge throughout her whole system, her blood, her bones, her skin. She planted her hands firmly on the bed, and held herself up with straightened arms as her body was wracked with ecstasy. Steed joined in his wife's release, and his body formed a U-shape as he thrust inside Emma as far as he could go and bent his chest up, holding onto her, thrusting again and again, until his buttocks were almost off the bed and he shook and cried out loudly. They both fell back to the bed, Emma collapsing on Steed's chest and if it hurt his bandage hidden bullet wound, Steed didn't show it at all. He hugged her tightly, pressing his lips to hers and flipping her over onto her side. They rolled around the bed completely tearing it apart, touching, caressing, stroking, with a hunger, a need, that neither had felt for a long time. They were rough and gentle at the same time, scratching, licking, holding, rubbing, stopping only to catch a breath and smile at each other before beginning again, diving into each other's body with an energy that soon grew their spent passion into first a smoldering heat and then a fiery demand for consummation. "John," Emma gasped as they faced each other, her hand reaching down to his long penis, once more erect and solid. She ran her palm from its base to its top, spending several seconds spreading Steed's early semen over the head, but before she could bend down to take him into her mouth, Steed turned her onto her back and with an swiftness that in and of itself made Emma tingle, Steed angled himself between her spread legs and entered her once more. Emma could see that Steed tried to go slow, to gradually bring them both back to that peak of rapture, but that being inside her, feeling her warmth, her moisture, plastering his lips onto hers, onto her breasts, smelling her perfume and her perspiration, seeing the look of pure love in her eyes which she shone on him like a laser, he couldn't contain himself and he sped up his thrusting by leaps and bounds, first holding himself up by his straight arms, then resting on his elbows, then back up on his rigid arms, his arm and chest muscles magnificent in their definition as they supported his weight, his rapid tempo never halting, never lessening, his sweat dripping from his chest onto her heaving breasts. Emma's legs wrapped around his low back, her hands grasped his flanks, and she begged him to continue, to never stop, don't stop, don't stop, oh, God, Steed, keep going, keep going… Steed drove into Emma harder than he had in ages, and both their worlds narrowed down to their genitals, his thrusts, their love. Like a jackhammer he moved in and out so very hard Emma's torso jolted up with each deep entrance, Steed becoming a sculpture chiseling their ardor bit by bit into a piece of priceless art. Steed grew so near, Emma could see him struggling to continue, could see the bliss of this merging beginning to fill him as he began to slow just slightly and his grunts resonated throughout their bedroom. Emma needed just a little more time, so very near to erupting herself. She closed her eyes and even in his extremity she urged him to "Keep going… a little bit more… just keep going… Steed… please, just, ooohhh, yes… yes!" They came together, exactly, and neither heard the other scream through their own boisterous cries. Steed thrust inside Emma once last time, trying to reach her spine, to pierce her entirely with his love, and Emma's body curved upwards in a spasm that began far inside her and then claimed her whole torso, her hands finding the rounded hills of Steed's long back muscles for purchase as even her arms joined in her orgasmic cramping. Steed arched forward, his face a grimace of bliss, and one hand finding the top of the headboard of their bed and the other grabbing whatever sheets he could, he convulsed a number of times before he finally ended his orgasm. His hand slipped off the headboard and he fell, floppy and loose like a jellyfish of spent passion over his already slack and pliant wife. "Wow, when you heal, you really heal," Emma said after awhile of recovery. "That was fantastic." "We aim to please, madam," came a muffled sound from Steed's mouth as he lay facedown on the tussled bed. Emma grinned and pulled her husband's flaccid head up and then pushed him over to her side so that he was now next to her on his back. "Thank you," Steed said. "The air was running out." She kissed his nose, and he ran his hand over her cheek, brushing back her hair from her eyes. "I hope our daughter has your silky auburn hair," Steed said. Emma answered, "I hope our son has your tender grey eyes." "How about you change all her nappies, and I'll teach her to play polo." "You may help me with his nappies, and I'll teach him astrophysics." "It will be a girl." "No, a boy." "A girl, I'm sure of it." "How can you be so sure?" "That danger tickle of mine. Warning me that I'll soon be living in a household with two strong-willed women!" Emma laughed. "Well, I'm sure it will be a boy." "Oh, and how do you know that?" "A mother knows," she said, patting her tummy. Steed bent down and kissed her flat tummy, moist with perspiration, then looked back up at Emma, "Have you told anyone else yet?" "No, just you." "A baby… Little Emma…" Steed nestled against Emma, his fingers absent-mindedly rubbing and delightfully pinching her breast and nipple. "Little John…" Steed abruptly clamped his hand to his jaw, holding it closed while his mouth seemed to demand being allowed to open up. When his mouth stopped doing that, he warily removed his hand. "Those yawns! Very painful if they happen," he complained. Emma reached down and pulled up the bedcover and pillows they had, in their tossing and turning, sent crashing to the floor. She yanked the blanket and top sheet back from the bed, pushed Steed under them, then arranged the covering over Steed and placed a pillow under his head. "Here, get some rest. If we're going to the symphony later you should take a little nap first. I don't think walking around holding your jaw closed to prevent yourself from yawning will go over well with the symphony set. Besides," she added, reaching down under the covers to caress Steed's retracted groin, "you've earned a bit of rest. One thing bothers me, though." "What's that?" Steed asked as he settled himself down to sleep. "I haven't yet apologized to you." "My dear, priorities, priorities. There will be time in the future, one is hopeful that it is the near future, for you to apologize to me. I'm rather counting on that apology, actually. I'd be happy to receive two of them even. One for teasing me unmercifully and one for… Hey, perhaps you could break the replacement Ming vase, too, and then apologize for that again. Ha!" "Will you never let me live that down?" "To quote from you earlier: No. No. And no." Emma grinned, leaned over and kissed Steed and then headed for the shower, calling out, over her shoulder, "Toaster." When Steed heard the shower door close he mumbled "Ming vase," and fell asleep. Sometimes Emma, in her moods of low cunning, wondered if Steed realized that people took advantage of his gentlemanly code of conduct. Tonight, for example. Wasn't it just so coincidental that as soon as she and Steed had walked into the lobby of the Albert Hall, bedecked in their formal symphony finery, Mr. and Mrs. Percival Swanson just happened to notice them and come swooning over to introduce them to their guests, the Coltons, the aged parents of their daughter-in-law, visiting from Chicago? Yes, yes, they said they just had to bring their guests to the Albert Hall to hear the famed London Symphony Orchestra; too bad they had only been able to buy tickets far up in the balcony, where their elderly American relatives would have trouble seeing and hearing the performance, as they themselves did… Yes, too bad, Emma said, trying to separate her kind, decent, and accommodating husband from the Swanson's before he offered to exchange tickets with them… Too late. Steed offered to switch tickets; their perfect main floor center section seating for seats up in the unappealing attic. Emma saw the look pass between Percival and his wife, Claudia --a devious glance indicating their so-called innocent machinations had been successful. How lucky we ran into you Steed, they said… Emma contemplated kicking Steed's shin, but the tickets changed hands before she could cock her foreleg back for a telling strike. As they climbed the stairs to the balcony, Emma asked Steed, "Didn't you see that the Swanson's were waiting for you to arrive? Probably praying they hadn't missed you because they knew you'd be an easy mark?" "Yes," her benevolent husband answered, "but the Swanson's premeditated stalking of us, of me, is not the point, Emma. Helping the elderly Coltons enjoy the concert is what's important. The Swanson's methods may be disingenuous, and have the machinations belonging to a Shakespearean play, but nevertheless, their cause was worthy. You did notice that both the Swanson's have hearing aids, so they need their own good tickets themselves. And thank you for not kicking my shin." Emma moped. She hated being that predictable. And she sometimes hated Steed's generosity and pragmatic view of helping people, mostly when it impacted on her enjoyable evening. Their seats would only have been worse if they had been assigned chairs in the street outside the theatre: they were located midway up the furthest right section in the circular balcony layout, the seat against the wall and the one next to it. Upsetting Steed by not allowing him to take the inferior seat, Emma walked into the short row and plopped down in the chair next to the wall. The balcony was sparsely populated, which was unusual, but no doubt the absolutely biblical downpour that had begun in the early evening and had continued besieging the earth with slate walls of rain contributed to the absence of the normal plethora of musical aficionados. In fact, there was no one else in their row, just two people in front of them, and just two people behind them, both sitting in the aisle and first in seats. Emma squinted her eyes at the distance to the musicians warming up their instruments on the stage, and made tubes of her hands resting them in front of her eyes as if they were binoculars. "Land Ho!" she said. "Captain, there, some miles ahead, I believe there's a shoreline of musicians." No response from her side. Emma put a hand to her ear, "Are they warming up, Steed? I can't quite hear anything." Steed studiously ignored her as he took up reading the program. Emma sighed and brought her hands down to her lap. Of all the men she had to be madly in love with, it had to be some knight errant who went around slaying dragons and exchanging excellent tickets for terrible ones. Emma still could have a wisp or two of steam rise from the top of her head when she remembered Steed giving, just giving, their invitation to the Duke of Cumberly's three day grand party for his son's twenty-first birthday to Sir Norris after he had pleaded with Steed that he had to go so he could be formally introduced to the Duke's daughter Marion, with whom he was completely infatuated. And whom he had married as a result of that first meeting, Emma thought, but that was not the point. The point was, sometimes she wondered if people thought Steed was a pushover because he was such an Edwardian gentleman; she was sure the Swansons had been specifically waiting for Steed and her to arrive. She remembered once when they had been waiting for forty-five minutes for a table at a restaurant Emma was eager to try, and the newly married daughter of friends of theirs and her husband had come up to them, explaining that they had just returned to town from a holiday, Steve was a diabetic and needed to eat quickly, they had no food in their house, this was the closest restaurant to where they lived, the waiting list was now up to one and a half hours… Steed had given them their reservation, which had then been called immediately. To appease his wife, who had begun to sputter lava like a newly active volcano, Steed had quickly driven her to one of their favorite restaurants, and paid the maitre d' fifty pounds. They had a table in minutes, Steed embarking on being his most charming and witty a conversationalist to duck the arrows coming out of Emma's eyes. It had worked; Emma had calmed down, and they had had a wonderful meal. Still, Emma began seething about it being a real possibility that all of London knew that Steed was a cinch to manipulate, no matter the nature of the inconvenient request, when she realized Steed was looking at her, his honest and open grey eyes melting her ire away. What a truly noble and good man he was. "You're not still mad at me, are you?" he asked. "No, I'm not," she answered, her irritation being completely eradicated by his handsome face and his concern that things were tranquil between them. Emma paused before adding, "They take advantage of your accommodating nature, you know." "Who?" "Everyone." "Everyone doesn't. Some may." "Doesn't it bother you?" "That's your department," he smiled. "I'm the affable, easy-going member of this partnership." Emma stuck her tongue out at Steed as the conductor came onto the stage. Steed lifted his finger and waved it back and forth tsk-tsk-tsking at her. "Honestly," he said, "I can't take you anywhere." Then he leaned forward and kissed her. "I'm sorry for the seats. I love you. I didn't want to upset you." Sometimes so much loved poured out of her heart for Steed that Emma was surprised it didn't leak out of her chest and spill onto the floor, releasing the aroma of roses and vanilla before it transmogrified into a pool of gold around her feet. "Oh, Steed," she said, kissing him back, lamenting that the world had only sprung forth one John Steed, that it could use so many more ideal men such as him. Then Emma was so very thankful that if there was only one, then out of all the women in the world, many with less of a temper, she had been the one blessed by Fate to marry Steed, to love him and be loved by him. Suddenly the music began, but Emma's mind was soon elsewhere. She sat to her husband, decked out gorgeously in his dinner jacket, his full head of dark brown hair perfectly coiffeured, his musky cologne wafting over to her receptive nostrils, his excellent posture complimented by his broad shoulders and lean figure, long legs, and his… crotch. Throughout the whole first half of the concert Emma constantly reprimanded herself, demanding she listen to the music, it's quite lovely, flowing and vibrant. Flowing and vibrant --just like Steed's thrusting earlier that afternoon…. Emma smoothed her black gown, and crossed her legs to try to stop herself from becoming too moist… listen to the symphony, Emma… She watched the conductor's arms waving up, down, pointing to the violins, lifting up to bring the force of the music to a more intense pitch… and then her eyes subtly strolled to the left and down to view Steed's crotch again. It's his fault, Emma thought, for being such a wonderful man, for being so damn handsome, for almost dying and then coming back to me, for giving me the chance to finally be a mother, for being such a wonderful lover, for giving me such excellent orgasms… for making me want him again and again… How can he just sit there so placidly, enjoying the music? This was a mistake. We should've just stayed home, in bed, tonight… Since the beginning of the concert Emma had not been able to pay attention to the music, barely hearing a few bars of music before she pictured Steed's naked, aroused body, the cut of his muscles, the solid line of his penis, perpendicular to his body, a large hot flagpole waving a joyful banner of lust… Emma gave up all pretense of trying to focus on the music and just turned her head staring at Steed, sitting next her, his eagle eyes aimed at the musicians fingering and blowing their various instruments. Her eyes took in his masculine physique, his strong jaw, his flourishing pile of luxuriant hair --that gorgeous hair!- -his long legs, and his zipper, and under the zipper that bulge she could espy, that bulge she knew by heart, by feel, by yearning, she could imagine his genitals exactly, how they lay relaxed in his briefs, how they looked when Steed was rigid and entering her… when he was thrusting in and out… Emma, growing warmer by the minute, fanned herself with her program; that got Steed's attention and he smiled at her, reaching to hold her left hand in his and resting both hands on his thigh… so close to his groin… Mind the music, she castigated herself as she once more blankly gazed at the symphonic display, the music and the musicians not registering in her mind at all. You like Mendelssohn; not very complicated, just easy gentle music… easy gentle hands caressing her breasts… Oh, for goodness sake Emma, settle down, it's not like you and Steed are illicit teen-age lovers in the throes of puberty… yet, earlier that afternoon… such frenzied need… oh, that orgasm… Warm, it was decidedly warm in the theatre… Emma's hand lay enclosed in Steed's. His hand, so rough with callouses from his training, yet so smooth over her skin… so strong, he could throw such a punch, yet the most courteous and caring of husbands, of men, of lovers... he knew her body as she knew his…Emma's pupils descended once more to his crotch… mid-way down his long body… made up of his long… Fanning, more fanning… The movement ended and as if possessed by netherworld minions Emma allowed her innate impishness to impulsively come springing out of her unbidden of any of the social graces that usually kept her from misbehaving in public. No doubt the dearth of the typical assortment of formal and stately couples around them to witness her impropriety contributed to Emma's daring and dastardly whims. Leaning into Steed on the pretext of whispering some remark about the performance, Emma unhitched her left hand from his grasp and brought it up over the back of his ear, and then launched a very naughty double attack on her husband's composure. Steed noticed her tilting towards him and bent his head slightly to her, politely enabling her to easily murmur something in his ear; instead she licked it, slowly and sensually several times, and then nibbled on the lobe, whispering just how she planned to apologize to him later, as her other hand came around the front of Steed and proceeded to massage his groin under his trousers with definite lascivious intent. Steed stiffened up, his eyes opening as if he had just seen the Queen walk naked onto the stage. A tiny sound, an "aah" spilled out of him. As the musicians readied themselves to begin the final movement before the intermission, Emma was cruelly pleased to feel Steed's genitals harden under his trousers. "Emma," he whispered, uncomfortably, a forceful yet pleading tone in his voice, as he lifted her hand off his zipper and pulled his head out of the reach of her tongue, casually glancing around to see if anyone noticed. Assured no one had, Steed reset his shoulders back, reestablishing his elegant appearance, even though Emma could still see a certain round tenting up of the zipper in his black trousers. Emma switched offensive tactics as the music swelled into the melodic grace of the fourth movement. Moving the hand that had hid her tongue from the row of people behind them, she placed it on the nape of Steed's neck, one of the most intensely erogenous zones on his body, which seemed to have a direct communication link to his penis. Once there, under the perfectly barbered hairline, she began to casually rub and stroke his neck, travelling across the whole of it in a light waving motion, just naturally as a wife might do so that no one behind them would think it odd or unacceptable, yet, so softly she could feel the individual fine hairs on his skin stand on their ends… as the tenting elevated up just that much more… Steed, his respiration increasing quite a bit, cast Emma a look of irritated despair, and nonchalantly grabbing her left forearm he wrapped his right arm around it once more holding her hand, a bit more surely this time, coming to rest on their shared chair arm. He leaned to her and spoke out of the side of his mouth, "Knock that off, please. It's not really the time nor place, don't you think? Have some social graces." Emma bit her lips to keep from snickering. She did think it was the time and place. She was good for two minutes, long enough for Steed's crotch to almost completely regress from it's full tumescence, but then, forswearing any care of maintaining a public persona of refined heiress --besides there was no real public surrounding them-- she leaned onto Steed, resting her head against his shoulder. Steed tensed suspiciously and lifted an eyebrow at her, but then when Emma progressed no further, he relaxed, turning his head back to the symphony. That was Emma's sign to subtly bring her unencumbered right hand over and ran her finger up the inside of Steed's thigh from his knee to his genitals, another erogenous zone, with a light touch, yet very perceptible under his trousers and very stimulating to him. Steed's grew erect under his clothes, and removed her right hand from his leg with his left hand. It was then that Emma began to run her left foot up and down Steed's right calf. Steed closed his eyes tightly, trying to breathe normally. Releasing Emma's right hand briefly, he calmly bent down to pick up the program that had fallen to the floor; Emma was quicker and nabbed it first, sitting back up to fan herself with it. Steed's imploring look touched her and she leaned back on him, her head resting on his shoulder as she handed him the program; he eagerly took it and arranged it over his rounded crotch. Emma meanwhile, in a dexterous one-two act of sedition with her free hand, skillfully unbuttoned one of Steed's shirt buttons and reached into his shirt rubbing a nipple. Steed's mouth opened wide but soundlessly, and he pulled Emma's hand out, buttoned the shirt, grabbed her hands and held them both in a steel trap grasp of iron. Both members of the couple seated over and front of them turned to look at Steed and Emma frankly disapproving whatever was going on in back of them, and it was all Steed could do act natural, frankly blushing in his mortification, praying that the program fully hid his erection from their sight. Emma went back to his calf with the toe of her high heel, trying to get underneath his pants as much as possible, lifting them up away from his polished shoe and black sock… And the musical piece was over. Before Emma could even think of applauding, if Steed would release her, Steed stood up, liberating one of her hands so he could hold their program in front of his bulging mid-section. Still clutching her hard enough to almost crush her bones with his other hand, he wrenched Emma out of her seat, barely enabling her to grab her handbag, and before the other people had even stopped clapping he was tearing through the balcony aisle, up to the main aisle exiting from the theatre at maximum speed. They were the first to enter the upstairs lobby, and the first to leave it as Steed dragged Emma after him down the stairs, through the downstairs lobby and around a hallway, down another set of stairs, and down one hallway, down another, until they were alone with locked office doors on either side of them. Steed stopped almost all the way down the hall at an office and dropping the program to the floor he pushed Emma up against the wall, kissing her with a passion that ignited her ardor, his hands in her hair, crushing her breasts, grabbing her buttocks, pulling her as close as possible to his bulging groin. "You devil," Steed croaked, "you utterly, nasty devil." "You're the horned one," she gasped. "Steed, I need you now." Steed broke from her, and took a set of picks out of his breast pocket, squatting down and inserting a couple into the lock of the door, shaking in his need to enter both the room and his wife. Emma squatted down behind him, her hands sliding in front of his body to unzip his pants again and clutch his hard, distended penis. "Emma, can't concentrate…" Steed complained as he fumbled at the lock. "Concentrate. Get us inside that room," she ordered, not really aiding Steed in fulfilling that directive as she dipped her hand down the front of his pants under his briefs, feeling the hot sweat of his aroused member. Steed fell to his knees on the floor, and Emma wrapped her other arm around his torso, kissing his neck. "You're not helping… ahhh… come on, come on, come on… stubborn lock… come on, come on, click open… click open… come on…" Steed rattled off, maneuvering the picks skillfully in the lock, as Emma rolled his early drops of semen around the thick head of his penis. "Ohh… Emma… that's so… ooh--" Amazingly, there was a click. Steed and Emma paused, shocked at that sound, and then they were standing up frantically as Steed opened the door and they dove into the room, closing and locking the solid wood door behind them and flicking on the light switch. They flung themselves into each other's arms, twirling around the room as their tongues exchanged residences, their hands urgently trying to get to the skin beneath the clothes. Steed lifted up Emma's dress and his hand went under her underwear and nylons, his fingers curving up into her vagina, already moist, yet with his digital stimulation it soon poured out lubrication as the force of their kissing almost merged their two faces into one head. Emma removed Steed's cumberbund, and lifted his shirt out of his pants. Once he felt Emma's state of acute readiness, Steed lifted his wife up by her upper thighs so that her legs wrapped around his hips; darting to the wide desk at the back of the room Steed in one wide arm motion swept away all the items he could reach, scattering pens and pencils and date books, coffee mugs, family pictures all over the floor. Then he put Emma down on the edge, carefully lifting the back of her dress out of the way to lay flat on the desk. He ripped off her shoes, nylons and underwear, tossing them carelessly behind him. Unbuttoning his trousers, Steed pushed them and his briefs to the floor and in one fluid movement he bent over his wife, his quivering erection in hand and, after