Sequel is Loose Change

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CORNWALL, MAY 1799

He stood at the cliff edge, staring into the cove below, watching the small, urgent figures scurrying from tide-edge to points well beyond the waterline. The rain had eased, although the wind still drove in from the sea; the darkness was broken by flares dotted along the beach.

His face expressionless, Bodie watched as the dead and the injured who had already been swept ashore were stripped of everything of value. It had been a hard winter for the village; the supplies taken from the wreck meant food for hungry bellies and loot to sell if the villagers could strip the ship before the militia arrived. He saw one of the waterlogged figures stir in protest when his pockets were emptied; a cudgel flashed down and the feeble resistance faded. Within seconds the half-naked body had been returned to the sea.

Unmoved, Bodie continued to watch the activity. He was empty of feeling, either for the villagers, or for their victims. His hands dug deep in the pockets of the dark greatcoat which billowed around him, he watched incuriously as spoils were examined, fought over and allotted. There was nothing to interest him here. Recently he had begun to wonder if anything could ever engage his interest again. Non-involvement, that was the secret, he reminded himself tiredly. There were times when he wished he had never learned to open his heart to another, for he had found no easy way to deal with the sense of loss which seemed to sharpen rather than blunt with each year that passed.

Shrugging off his melancholy mood, impatient with himself for wallowing in self-pity, he turned to return to the house, which was empty save for the servants. Impulse took him down the slippery track to the beach, the large hound padding steadily at his heels.

The wind was strengthening, shifting the wreck's position on the rocks. She would not last much longer. The villagers took no notice of the man who had come amongst them, for he and his dog were familiar figures. The relative calm of the busy scene was broken when a fight broke out between two women Bodie did not recognise. Abuse changed to violence when neither woman would give up her prize. Their shrieks sounded above the roar of the incoming tide.

The large figure of the blacksmith lumbered out of the darkness. "D'you want to bring every red coat in the county down on us?"

The women ignored him. He felled her with a hammer-like blow and she dropped like a stone. The other woman whimpered but held her ground, her breath rasping.

"Get goin'," he bellowed, waving a clenched fist.

She fled. Without sparing her a second glance, the blacksmith busied himself with ramming heavy curtaining into the empty chest he had appropriated, before he dragged it further away from the waterline.

Great spars of timber were being tossed nearer to the beach; they would burn well in empty hearths. A ragged chain of villagers waited eagerly, some wading out into the surf to meet them, determined that nothing of value should be lost to the sea. Turning his back on the sight, and quelling his impulse to lend his strength to their endeavours, Bodie headed for the rocky boundary that guarded the flank of the cove. Spray hung whitely over its outer rim before thundering down to froth lacily over the jagged rim and trickle along it, force spent.

It was the dog who found the half-drowned figure of a man tucked in the shadows. His sharp bark drew his master's attention.

"What is it, boy?" Bodie asked softly, silencing the hound with an inconspicuous gesture of his hand.

The man lay face down on a door which had become wedged in the rocks. His wrists were manacled and only the tangled links of the chains, which had wrapped themselves around the ornate door latch, had prevented him from being swept from his makeshift raft. Bodie studied the limp figure thoughtfully, knowing from the reaction of his dog that the man lived, despite his appearance to the contrary. He could make out little detail because of the shadows in which the man lay, except for the pale blur of his shirt. His voice carried down the beach as he called for some light.

Reluctantly Tom Chegwidden set down the wooden chest and looked around. Will Simmons automatically gave up his own flare before going back about his business; he wanted no part of Mister Bodie's.

Chegwidden took the torch with a grunt of acknowledgement and slid across the stones high above the waterline to reach the two figures. As he drew closer his sharp gaze went past Bodie and his dog to the blurred outline behind them.

"Be ye needin' any help, sir?" Chegwidden could see nothing in the unconscious figure to be worth troubling about. Even the clothes were too badly torn to be of value. His eyes widened when he glimpsed the chains. He looked up in silent speculation and meet Bodie's uncommunicative face.

"Forget you've seen him," ordered Bodie. "He was never here, whoever shows an interest. Clear? I have a few questions to put to him when - if - he recovers consciousness." He glanced back down the beach. "You may tell the others they have my permission to store the heaviest goods in the old stables. I suggest they make haste, the militia cannot be far away. Rouse Jedediah and get him to show you the entrance - it's time you were entrusted with its location. The goods will be safe enough there. Captain Ross won't be searching my property again in a hurry."

Chegwidden's face was split by a gap-toothed grin of reminiscent pleasure. "Aye, they bain't be makin' the same mistake twice. Thank 'ee, sir. I'll tell 'un." He hesitated. "'Bout this wreck. Those washed up be French. That's why we bain't be too particular about tending 'un."

"French! Are you sure?"

"They all speak Frog, sir. So you take care with this 'un. I'll be by Friday for orders, the same as allus."

"Thank you, Tom. I'll see you then," Bodie acknowledged.

He looked down the beach to where a few bodies still littered the sand. This ship should have had a larger crew. He looked speculatively at the body at his feet. Waiting until he was alone, and holding the flare aloft in one hand, he bent over the still figure, conscious of a curious sense of foreboding. But the chained man stirred his interest. Passenger ships weren't in the habit of carrying prisoners and this man was undoubtedly a prisoner. But of whom? If he were French he might prove to be a useful source of information. His nationality was by no means certain. The few clothes he had retained must have been of excellent quality before their immersion in the sea; their cut was unmistakeably English - and expensive, the stained boots not dissimilar to those he wore.

Eager to study the stranger in more detail, and with no thought to any injury he might have sustained, Bodie laced ungentle fingers in the sea-matted curls and turned the head. At the same time he eased his foot under the torso and flipped the stranger onto his back. The face was pale under the traces of blood, and that of a youngish man, handsome save for one imperfect cheekbone. The body, while lean, was well-muscled under the torn clothing.

"Ray?" Thunderstruck, Bodie stared at the unconscious face in disbelief, tracing the bruised profile with fingers that shook. Afraid of what he would find, his fingers dipped to seek the pulse in the neck; it was fast but reassuringly strong.

Sensing something amiss, the hound looked up at his master with liquid anxiety. Buffeted by the cold wind, which ruffled his unfashionably cropped hair, Bodie was unaware of the raw cold or the light drizzle which was slowly soaking him. Numb with shock, his insulating wall of indifference in ruins, he remained frozen above the unconscious figure, his hand still cupping the chilled flesh.

He had changed so little.

Bodie had believed him dead these ten years.

He was unaware of the fierce, irrational rage that began to burn within him; the combination of joy, fear and pain. He had found a measure of contentment in this small community. He would not permit Ray Doyle to destroy it.

---

CORNWALL, MAY 1983

Staring lugubriously past the jagged rocks and damp sand to the seemingly motionless sea, Ray Doyle became aware that the muttered imprecations drifting over from under the car had increased in volume and intensity. Without turning to investigate, he called back over one shoulder, "Haven't you finished yet?"

There was a clang as a spanner hit the tarmac. Doyle could almost hear the silent count to ten.

"No, I haven't." Bodie's voice held an admirable restraint. There was a short pause. "Want to give me a hand?"

Doyle subdued a satisfied smirk. Taking his time, he settled himself cross-legged on the springy turf. Examining a tuft, he selected a grass stalk, tugged it free and began to chew on it with idle pleasure before he spared the half-hidden figure under the car an unsympathetic glance. "Nope. Ten minutes you said. So what's gone wrong? That was forty-five minutes ago."

The silence from under the car spoke volumes. After a few seconds Doyle heard the work get under way again. His grin widened, his mood miraculously lightened by his partner's obvious frustration.

The sun was hot, the air sweet with the tang of the sea and the perfume drifting across from the hawthorn hedgerow. Dismissing the wild-goose chase that had brought them down to the West Country in the first place, Doyle gave a sigh of satisfaction. Lying back against the grass, he pillowed his head on his arm and closed his eyes, blissfully soaking up the warmth of the sun.

If the car had to spring a leak on them it couldn't have picked a better time or place, he decided with contentment. A whole seventy-two hours off-duty. It had been a hectic nine months, with no time to themselves since Cowley had given them that week off last August; he'd forgotten fresh air could smell this good. All they needed now was a deserted beach - and he would settle for the one down below - a decent pub that could put them up for a couple of nights, and the weather to hold. If they went back with a tan it would upset Cowley no end.

A shadow fell over Doyle's face, drawing him from his reverie. Reluctantly he opened his eyes to find Bodie looming over him, his eyebrows drawn together in a ferocious scowl. Doyle knew some people went in for the dark, smouldering look; as someone who had spent almost seven years in close proximity to a master of the art, he was not amongst them. He resisted the impulse to close his eyes again.

"I've fixed the car," Bodie announced. Doyle looked singularly unimpressed with his feat of engineering. "I thought of leaving you here," Bodie persevered, "decided against it. It's your turn to pay for the petrol."

Doyle sat up indignantly, their previous spat forgotten. "Not a chance, mate. I paid for the last lot." He eyed his partner with a degree of malicious satisfaction. "It took you long enough to see to the car, didn't it?"

"So I made a small miscalculation. Even I can't always be perfect. I wouldn't want to show you up more than necessary. You coming, or are you planning to vegetate here forever?" There was a faint, edgy note to Bodie's voice as he cast another glance around him, obviously not impressed by the scene of bucolic bliss.

Clambering to his feet, Doyle brushed himself down before wandering over to prop himself against the stone wall which overhung the steep drop down to the beach.

"In a minute. Let's enjoy the scenery for a bit. Give yourself a break, relax. Get back to nature. And I don't mean peeing in the hedgerow, you uncouth bugger," he added, forestalling any witticism Bodie might have planned. "What's wrong, missing the sweet smell of pollution?"

Fidgeting uneasily, Bodie came to stand at his side. He took a deep breath, felt the tickle of grass pollen fizzing along his sinuses and sneezed three times in quick succession.

"Sod the countryside," he said thickly, accepting the handkerchief Doyle handed him when his own failed to materialise. There was a telling weariness about him when he leant back against the support of the wall.

"What's wrong with it?" inquired Doyle. Unbuttoning his shirt, he rolled up his sleeves, stretching with a cat-like pleasure under the heat of the sun on his body.

"I dunno," Bodie admitted, shamefaced. Kicking moodily at a tuft of grass, he eyed his companion from under his lashes. Ray was going to laugh himself silly at this next bit, he conceded, before he took a deep breath and added, "It's this place."

"What's wrong with it?" repeated Doyle, with little real concern. Hitching himself up onto the wall, he sat swinging his legs as he tried to calculate whether he could make it down to the beach from this spot without breaking something vital.

"You want to watch yourself," Bodie advised him, his expression serious. "You can get piles doing that."

Doyle grinned at him from over one shoulder. "Don't be daft, you get them from sitting on radiators."

"Oh yeah, so you do. Well, I was close." Bodie's grin faded, his look of irritable unease reappearing. He scanned the hedgerows as if anticipating imminent attack. "There's something - " He gave a shrug which looked untypically like helplessness. "I dunno. This place gives me the creeps."

Doyle shot him a look of surprise. That wasn't an admission he heard from Bodie every day of the week. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember having heard it before. "Old age, mate," he said kindly. "You're getting past it."

Bodie didn't rise to the bait, which was a sign in itself. Chewing pensively on his lower lip, he looked decidedly twitchy. Despite his disbelief Doyle began to take more notice of his surroundings. When Bodie got that broody look there was usually a good reason for it. He was probably just tired, Doyle reasoned, unable to see any cause for alarm in these pastoral surroundings. Fatigue went a long way to explain what had been wrong between them recently. They'd both been irritable, having too many niggling arguments that did nothing to clear the air. Bodie had taken the brunt of the drive down after twenty-four hours on duty, and he had looked tired before they started out. Neither of them had got much sleep by the time they had reported in to Cowley and tidied up the loose ends.

"Hang on a tick," said Doyle lightly. "I've got just the thing to make the world seem a brighter place." Sliding down from his perch, he ambled back to the car, disappearing in to the depths of the back seat to re-emerge with a bulging carrier bag and a wide grin.

"Lunch for later," he explained in answer to the eyebrow Bodie raised in query. "And liquid refreshment for now. We may as well have it out here while you tell your Uncle Ray all about it. I haven't been on a picnic for ages."

With one final glance of unease over his shoulder, Bodie followed the urchin-like figure of his partner as Doyle loped up the road. How anyone could get this enthusiastic about a little fresh air was beyond him.

The bag tucked precariously under one arm, Doyle disappeared over the chest-high stone wall on the other side of the road. There was a muffled "Shit!" before his mournful voice drifted back to his partner. "I don't think you're going to approve of my choice of venue."

Already sitting astride the wall, conscious of the warmth of the stone against his inner thighs, Bodie nodded in grim agreement. He could feel the hair prickling on the back of his neck. "Got it in one, sunshine. What the hell made you pick this spot?"

"Natural talent," Doyle informed him as he limped over a tumbled gravestone, favouring his bruised knee. The apples had fallen out of the carrier bag; chasing the last one, he paused to peer at the inscription on a weathered, lichen-covered tombstone.

"Hey, this is a good one. Old lady of eighty-three. That was going it some in those days. 'Beloved wife and mother to - 'thirteen kids! I wonder if she holds the record for these parts?"

There were times when Bodie wondered about his partner's sanity. "You really are a gruesome little bugger," he remarked.

"Healthy curiosity, mate," replied Doyle cheerfully. He continued to search the stones for interesting epitaphs.

Dropping down into the sunken graveyard and fighting his urge to make off in the opposite direction, Bodie took great pains not to tread on any of the graves. With the weeds and brambles approaching knee height it was not always easy to tell where they were. He looked up to find Doyle watching his cautious progress with a wide grin.

"It wouldn't be respectful, would it?" Bodie said defensively.

Doyle gave a derisive snort and crunched into the apple he held. Bodie flinched at the sound, then gave an embarrassed shrug as he straightened from his defensive crouch.

"Strewth, you have got it bad," Doyle remarked. "You been forgetting to take your vitamin pills again? Here, sit down and drink this." He thrust a can of beer into his partner's unresisting hand.

Bodie gave him a look of undisguised horror. "I can't sit on one of - "

"Sit," Doyle insisted, pushing him downwards.

Bodie obeyed perforce, relaxing only when no bony hand shot up from the ground to grab hold of him. Becoming aware of the reassuring solidity of Doyle's body at his back, he leant against it and closed his eyes.

"This isn't bad," he admitted after a while.

Doyle gave the cropped head a look of affection and began to knead his partner's tense shoulder muscles, the massage slowly becoming a caress. He had yet to take for granted the moments when Bodie let his guard slip and was still wary about the response he made. Bodie needed a hair-cut, he realised. Deciding not to tell him, because he liked the idea of a wavy-haired Bodie, he ruffled the silky hair in parting and gestured to the can of beer his partner still held.

"Drink up, and get your teeth around this. You're looking peaky."

"Peaky?" Bodie looked from the browning, half-eaten apple being thrust at him, to Doyle. "Sure you can spare it?" But he ate it readily enough, core and all, neatly shooting out the pips into the lacy white head of some cow parsley. The sun warm on his face as he drank his beer, he began to relax. He looked down at his partner's engrossed figure, puzzlement creasing his forehead.

"What vitamin pills?" he asked, picking up on his partner's earlier conversation.

Doyle stopped scraping lichen from the slab of granite he was crouched over to look up with a mocking affection; then he took in the marks of weariness around the half-closed blue eyes. "Go back to sleep. No wonder Cowley gave us the time off. You'd be a fat lot of good to anyone right now. Still feeling twitchy?"

"A bit," Bodie admitted. He was unconsciously scanning the area again. "But it's nothing I can explain. I know this place. Or at least it feels like I should. The village down the hill too."

Finishing his beer, Doyle crumpled the can in his hand. "I didn't think you'd ever been down to the West Country before?"

Bodie scooped up a handful of moss, inhaling its moist, green scent as he tossed the bundle between his hands. He was careful not to meet Doyle's eyes. "I haven't."

"Then what - ? You're cracking up, mate," Doyle told him with brisk assurance. "I didn't think you went in for all this mystical stuff. When are you going to start bending teaspoons and reading tea-leaves?"

Bodie got to his feet, his shoulders hunched. "I knew there wasn't any point telling you. Well, get it off your chest, have a damn good laugh."

The mockery faded from Doyle's face. "You're not joking, are you," he realised. He pushed the heavy curls away from his sweating forehead with a sudden impatience, inadvertently smearing his face with green. "Sorry, mate."

"It's OK, I would have had the same reaction." Bodie returned to stand over the kneeling figure, a faint smile at the back of his eyes. "You've got green all over your face. Here." He touched the spot with a gentle finger. "Maybe I am cracking up," he offered, not believing it himself.

"You can't do that," Doyle told him as he rubbed away the dirt, "Cowley wouldn't like it at all. If this place is getting to you, we'll find somewhere else. We can't have you..." His voice trailed away, body tensing as his gaze dropped to where Bodie had been sitting until a few minutes ago.

"Ray?"

Doyle slumped back onto his heels, his face wiped clean of all expression. Wordlessly he pointed to the worn gravestone. Time had eroded much of the inscription, half of it having been smoothed away by the elements, but the occupant's surname and a date were clearly visible. There was enough remaining of the two preceding names for a successful guess to be made.

Doyle found he had to clear his throat before he could speak. "For a hundred and fifty year old corpse I'd say you were looking pretty good," he said huskily.

Shaken, Bodie sank next to him and ran his fingertips lightly over the stone. It was his name right enough. "Well I'm buggered," he said mildly, relaxing now he had an explanation for his unease.

Doyle was suddenly galvanised into action; scrambling past Bodie, he was clearly searching for something. Another gravestone rested tipsily on its side against the stone bearing Bodie's name, half-covered by a choking mess of weeds. Doyle gave a grunt of satisfaction and began to clear the weeds with a frenetic urgency, unconscious of the nettles and brambles he grabbed. Under that assault the area was soon clear. He threw himself flat onto his stomach and peered up under the tilted slab so he could read the inscription.

"Raymond Doyle. The birthday's right. You might make a note of it, you forgot last year and I've got expensive tastes. Mmn, died on the same day - 16th May, 1832." Wriggling clear, he rolled free and sat up to stare at Bodie. "I always knew you'd be the death of me," he said with would-be lightness, but his hand closed over his partner's forearm with a bruising force.

"But the chances of - Someone's trying to psych us out," muttered Bodie, refusing to believe the evidence in front of him. Coincidence could stretch only so far.

"They've succeeded," said Doyle, his voice without expression. Kneeling up, he looked around the sunken graveyard before he shook his head.

He looked vital, alive and very desirable, his half-closed eyes giving his face a deceptive look of austerity. The sun gleamed chestnut through his halo of curls and Bodie resisted the urge to bury his face in them and inhale the scent of his lover.

"It doesn't seem a likely place for a set-up," mused Doyle. "Too much trouble for too little effect. Besides, no one could know we would get lost enough to find the village and this cemetery hasn't been touched for years. Look around and think about it. What would be the point? And why both of us, together even then?"

Bodie's expression tightened as he studied his partner's face. He still found it difficult to accept what had been given to him, knowing that sometimes he hurt Doyle by his inability to respond; he would mask the depth of his commitment with some flippant, throw-away comment, yet feel unreasonably hurt when Doyle withdrew in his turn. He lacked the confidence to treat their relationship as an accepted, familiar part of his life. The emotions that continued to creep closer to the surface as the time they spent together increased were too unfamiliar; they'd had little place in his life before Doyle. Recently Bodie had begun to wonder if what he had to offer his lover would be enough. It was probably just his insecurities coming to the fore, he conceded, prepared in this moment of vulnerability to admit that he woke each morning, only half-expecting to find Doyle next to him. Aching for reassurance, he dared not offer it because he was terrified of rejection.

"Who else would put up with you?" he said finally, his casual tone masking the rush of emotion that swept over him.

There was the flash of white and a familiar crease down one cheek as Doyle half-turned and grinned. "True," he conceded.

Bodie swallowed. That smile turned his guts to water every time. "Oh, Ray." Uncaring if half the village was watching, he leant forward to give the wilful mouth a fleeting kiss.

It deepened as with a throaty murmur of pleasure Doyle gave himself totally to the embrace, melting against his partner. His tongue slid with a moist familiarity into the accepting warmth of Bodie's mouth; he tasted of apples, beer and Ray Doyle: the latter had always been an intoxicating mixture. Bodie locked his strong hands in the tangled hair as Doyle cupped his buttocks and drew him closer.

The clear notes of a blackbird and an intrusive bramble reminded them of their surroundings. Reluctantly they drew apart to stare bemusedly at one another, shaken from their usual flippancy by the depths of feeling the other had revealed in that kiss.

In the months since they had become lovers, soon after Doyle had left hospital after being shot by Mayli, they had avoided making any declarations, relying on love-making to speak for them. Treading warily, they had circled around any possible source of confrontation, avoiding the necessity of testing the tenuous relationship because, despite the success of their working partnership, it seemed like tempting fate to believe it could survive.

Bodie blinked, then took a steadying breath. "What made you start scrabbling around like a squirrel who'd just lost his nuts after we found my - that - grave?"

Doyle sucked a nettle-stung palm. "I was afraid you'd ask me that," he confessed. Vaguely embarrassed, he subjected his palm to an unnecessary inspection.

"Well I have, so..." Bodie's expression cleared and he gave a delighted crow of laughter. "Don't tell me you had a - ?"

" - feeling. That's right, I did." Doyle's defensive belligerence faded as he looked into hilarious blue eyes. "I must be getting soft in my old age. I just didn't want to think of you..." His voice faded into an inaudible mumble.

"Me what?"

"Alone, damn it," snapped Doyle, taking the wind out of his partner's sails with that simple admission. He swallowed hard at the expression which appeared in Bodie's eyes - a fleeting look of wonder, followed by a softening of the normally cynical face.

"What the hell am I going to do with you?" whispered Bodie with a helpless tenderness. He felt as if he was crumbling around the edges, while falling slowly from a great height.

Doyle's flippant reply died in his throat when Bodie laced gentle fingers through his hair and leant forward. Drowning in the night-dark eyes, he felt the delicate touch of a warm mouth on his forehead, then on the tip of his nose, Bodie's breath warm and sweet against his cheek. Closing his eyes, he felt the same infinitely gentle caress on each quivering eyelid.

For a moment Doyle remained totally still.

"What was that for?" he asked shakily. His eyes luminous, he stared, bemused, at the naked tenderness on Bodie's smiling face. His knees felt as if they didn't belong to him.

"For being you," Bodie told him simply. "And for putting up with me." His hands curved around his companion's skull, cradling it between his palms, his thumbs caressing the skin behind Doyle's ears. It was ease itself to admit the truth. "I love you."

Doyle's eyes became very bright. "I hadn't forgotten that," he said gently. "And I won't, but it's nice to be reminded occasionally." He gave Bodie a nudge with his nose. "You're very easy to put up with. Well, most of the time," he qualified. "It's just a matter of practice really. And, god, but you're worth it," he breathed, humour dropping away as his grip tightened.

"That's great, mate, but do you think I could breathe now?" inquired Bodie plaintively. His bruised ribs were freed, Doyle's hands sliding down his sides in a parting caress. "We must talk - soon," he added tentatively, knowing that both of them had been avoiding any hint of serious conversation on a personal level for months.

His doubts sliding away, Doyle grinned and slipped a questing finger between the buttons of Bodie's shirt to tickle the few strands of dark hair on the breastbone. "You realise I may just hold you to that? Speaking of practice, do you know what I'd really like to do tonight?"

"I reckon I could take an educated guess," Bodie admitted, his hands sliding down Doyle's spine to cup his buttocks.

"You always were quite bright. I hope you're feeling up to it because tonight I wondered if we might try our hands at making wild, passionate love."

"Wild and passionate, eh?" echoed Bodie meditatively, knowing he never had been able to resist that silken note that entered Doyle's voice when he talked about sex. The muscles of his belly rippled in an involuntary response to Doyle's touch, his erection painfully constricted by this time. He began to nuzzle his lover's throat.

"If you think you'll be able to manage it," said Doyle soulfully, his doubts plain.

Bodie stroked the rounded buttocks, his fingers tracing down the cleft as if the soft denim which covered it had ceased to exist. "I expect I could come up with something," he conceded, grateful that Doyle's hand was moving up his chest rather than over his cock. He released breath he hadn't been conscious he was holding. "Do we have to wait until tonight?"

Doyle tried to look prim and failed dismally, a frankly lecherous look on his face. "There are times when I think you only want me for my body," he remarked. His breathing erratic, his tongue flicked over suddenly dry lips under Bodie's heavy-lidded appraisal.

Staring into the face opposite his own, Bodie desperately wanted to know what went on behind those clear, cool eyes; needing more of Ray Doyle than he had been offered to date. "I think you might be right," he agreed, telling himself to be satisfied with what he had. "But then I'm renowned for my superb taste."

"And modesty. Don't forget the modesty." Reaching behind him, Doyle removed the hands plastered to his backside and draw them around to hold them between their bodies.

Bodie's mouth parted in a silent question.

Like so many others before him Doyle was able to resist everything except temptation and gave the mouth he loved a fleeting kiss. Not permitting the caress to deepen, he drew away and tucked his unfastened shirt back into his jeans. He couldn't seem to stop smiling. Bodie's shyly-voiced declaration had left him feeling about sixteen and in love with the whole world - quite apart from disconcerting him immeasurably.

"Come on," he said briskly.

"Chicken," accused Bodie as he rebuttoned his own shirt. "Where are we going - a hotel?" There was a hopeful, lustful gleam in his eyes.

"Later," Doyle promised him. Batting his eyelashes in an outrageous parody of a sex-god, he grinned when Bodie shook his head, as if despairing of him. "Don't you want to know what happened here?" He picked up the carrier bag and held it in front of his groin for protective cover.

"We - they - died." Only half Bodie's attention was given to their conversation.

"Concentrate, 3.7. Before that."

With an obvious effort Bodie drew his gaze away from that lush mouth, the lips still rosy from his kisses, then stared at the two graves. His expression, while thoughtful, was relaxed. There were worse spots.

"Yes, I want to know," he admitted gruffly. "I want to know who they were. If they were... like us," he finished lamely. "But how are we going to find out anything after all these years?"

Doyle felt his guts melt when he realised that his would-be inscrutable partner had a romantic streak a mile wide - and that Bodie would have died rather than admit it. He promised himself that one day he would make Bodie want to - that and a whole lot more. One day. His look of resolve gave way to amusement when he met Bodie's querying gaze.

"How you ever got accepted into this outfit I'll never know. It must have been your natural charm - unless you've got some hold over Cowley I should know about?"

Bodie reeled back, appalled at the very thought.

"I knew it must be too good to be true," Doyle accepted with regret. "OK, super-sleuth, we start work. The public library, local paper, historical society - bound to be one down here - there can't be much else to do - the church and parish records, local authority records. Think you can stand the excitement?"

"I can hardly wait. Who wanted a holiday anyway? You do realise we don't stand a hope in hell of tracing them?"

Hoisting the still bulging carrier bag against his chest because the handles were threatening to give way - and his erection had subsided by now - Doyle gave his partner an encouraging shove. "You're going to have to stop all this positive thinking," he chided. "We'll dump this in the car, then go down into the village. My brains and beauty, your brawn, we can't fail."

"Shouldn't that be the other way around?" inquired Bodie, floating a punch past the cherubic profile. Catching the retaliatory apple that was tossed to him, he bit into it before passing it across to Doyle. Side by side they headed back to the car.

---

PARIS, NOVEMBER 1788

Grunting with exertion, Bodie completed the last of the series of exercises he had set himself. His arms trembling with fatigue, he released the bars of the small window and dropped into his fetid cell. Kneeling in the filthy straw, he gasped for breath, infuriated by his own weakness. No more slacking, he vowed as he scratched his latest crop of bites, cursing the fleas and longing for a bath and clean garments. Pulling on his shirt, he tried to ignore the ever-present knot of hunger in his belly. He glanced up through the small, slanted window to scan the tiny patch of darkening sky that had helped him to keep his reason during his first, desperate weeks of captivity. He would eat when it was totally dark, having overcome his revulsion at the smell and appearance of the food a long time ago. He was grateful for any sustenance that would keep him alive for long enough to escape this hell-hole.

If only he knew where he was, he reminded himself, quelling the rage that came with the reminder of his predicament. It was his own fault for electing to spend his furlough in Paris. He had been told of the growing political unrest by well-meaning acquaintances, but had shrugged off the warnings as no concern of his. He was an Englishman intent on pleasure, how could his activities interest the authorities?

A reminiscent gleam lit his eyes. Pleasure there had certainly been, in full measure, although he could not have foreseen having the good fortune to meet Clarice on his very first night in the gardens of the Palais Royale. He still didn't know why he had been detained. His last recollection was that of falling asleep, cushioned on Clarice's perfumed warmth. On waking, he had found himself in a small, dank office, being assigned a number.

A number, by all that was holy.

Where he had been brought, and why, remained a mystery. In the six weeks he had spent in this cell he was none the wiser and had almost grown accustomed to the denial of his identity. At least he had been detained under the alias he habitually used when in France, cold comfort though it was. Bodie's breathing steadied as he fought to subdue his despair. The silence was broken by the rustling in the filthy straw and the faint, barely audible sounds of life somewhere outside.

Unable to resist the thought of eating any longer, he ravenously devoured the thin cabbage soup and grey hardtack he had been saving since dawn. His meal finished, he rubbed tiredly at his beard, feeling a familiar frustration overtake him at his inability to do anything to secure his own release. He stiffened when he heard a distant clank of a heavy door thudding shut, then another and another, the sound coming closer. Faint voices grew more distinct, booted feet echoing against stone. There was the screech of a rusty bolt and his door thudded open, light and fresh air flooding his cell.

Remembering the last time Pêche had visited him at night, Bodie remained motionless, waiting to see what the turnkey intended. The beatings since his initial resistance had taught him that one caution. The gaoler and his bored helpers were, in their way, as much prisoners as those they guarded and they sought diversion from those of the prisoners still fit enough to offer a challenge. Bodie had soon realised his error in establishing himself as a challenge but pride did not permit him to modify his manner. Once he had been capable of acting whatever part might be required of him; he had been free then. Pride was one of the few luxuries left to him. Ignoring the twist of apprehension clenching his belly, his body readying itself for battle, he squinted up at the figures who stood behind the hand-held torches.

"We have a visitor for you," announced the gaoler.

"A visitor?" Bodie crossed the small space to stand at the foot of the steps. "But I know no one in Paris except for - "

"We do not have space to waste. This one will share your cell. If you truly wish to be alone..." Pêche shrugged. "You may always rid yourself of him." From the expression on his face it was clear that he expected Bodie to do just that.

At a nod from Pêche the guards released the man they held. His hands bound in front of him, he was propelled through the doorway; momentum sent him tumbling down the steps. He landed with a choked grunt of pain at Bodie's feet, remaining there as the door was slammed shut on them both.

Having stepped back to avoid collision, Bodie stared through the gloom with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. He wasn't sure he wanted to share his solitude. He had always preferred to conduct his life unencumbered and was accustomed to working and living alone. There was also the mundane problem of communication. While he spoke five languages, he spoke none of them well; his command of French was adequate for only the most basic of conversations. Until now, that had been of little consequence.

"Devil take it, I swear my back is broken," announced the ragged figure into the silence. His resigned tone made it clear that was not the case. He stirred and tried to right himself, his breath catching as he found new sore spots. Moving with caution, he propped himself against the bottom step and looked out into the centre of the cell. "I apologise for the intrusion, Monsieur. It was quite inadvertent, I assure you."

"You're English," exclaimed Bodie.

The man gave a gasp of laughter. "Betrayed, by God. So, obviously, are you. Civilisation at last. I was getting damned weary of being addressed as a number. Raymond Doyle of London." He raised his bound hands. "If you would be so kind."

"What? Yes, of course." Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, Bodie concentrated on removing the tightly knotted ropes. The other man's confidence was disconcerting. As soon as Doyle's hands were free he stepped back, careful that the movement should not look like a retreat.

"May I know your name?" Doyle asked.

"John - "

"Not Smith, I trust," interrupted Doyle, amused disbelief in his voice.

"Almost as bad," Bodie admitted, surprised by the other man's quick wits. "Brown. But when electing to choose her husband, my mother neglected to give any consideration to the difficulties my name might occasion in a situation such as this."

"Understandable, if unfortunate in the circumstances," agreed Doyle.

There was a short silence which neither man seemed willing to break.

"It has been a fatiguing day," said Doyle finally. "Perhaps we might continue to make each other's acquaintance tomorrow?" He showed no sign of wanting to move from his position by the steps; straightening his legs out in front of him, he seemed to have made himself comfortable.

"Of course," said Bodie, relieved to have been given a respite.

Lying still in the corner he had adopted for his bed, he listened to the sound of the other man's quiet breathing and knew that Doyle slept no more than he did throughout the night.



The next morning, while apportioning their meagre ration of food for the day, Bodie said with would-be nonchalance, "How long have you been detained here?"

Doyle scratched his untidy-looking beard. "About a month, by my reckoning. You?"

"Slightly longer."

Outside the sky was a blue so bright that it hurt the eyes to see it, but its light gave the cell the closest it ever came to daylight. It was sufficient to give Bodie the opportunity to study his companion. Made uneasy by the cool green gaze which seemed to track his every move, he avoided looking at Doyle more than was necessary and tried to quell his rising irritation. He knew it stemmed from the fact he had not accustomed himself to the notion of sharing his solitude.

Doyle accepted the food placed in front of him with a degree of self-discipline which was obvious to the man watching him. Leaning back against the wall despite the chill that permeated the stone, he chewed on the hard tack, washing it down with sips of the heavily watered wine.

"I still don't know where we are," Bodie said, unable to hide his tension.

Doyle stilled. "You have no idea of your whereabouts?"

"I wouldn't be asking if I did," Bodie snapped with asperity. He gave the other man a look of dislike. There had been a disquieting note of sympathy in his voice and he took pity from no man. Abandoning his meal, he began to pace around the cell.

"You received no indication of the reason for your incarceration?" questioned Doyle, his head following the other man's erratic passage.

"No." Bodie came to a standstill. "I did ask. The question seemed to afford the guards unwarranted humour. I was damned if I would give them the satisfaction of asking again."

"Were you taken at night and brought here by closed wagon by any chance?"

Bodie took a calming breath. "Mister Doyle, you're succeeding only in provoking me. You've asked a number of questions but I've yet to receive the courtesy of a reply."

"My apologies, sir. I had no intention of creating a mystery. You should seat yourself and prepare for the worst. You're in the Bastille. If you were brought here in secret, and have heard nothing regarding your sentence or supposed crime, you may take it that you are here, like the majority of us, under a lettre de cachet."

Bodie slumped against the wall, the blood pounding in his ears. A lettre de cachet was a sentence of death: worse than death. Imprisoned under a warrant from the King, he would remain here until he rotted. He suddenly felt very alone. There was no one who would question his disappearance. What was one more missing mercenary? People disappeared all the time. Clarice would not have spared her erstwhile lover a thought. She had probably forgotten about him already, he conceded realistically.

Clarice.

Black rage flooded him. "The witless harpy," he exclaimed, his voice savage as he realised who must be behind his imprisonment. "The lying jade. I'll kill her."

"I deduce that a chit lies at the root of it." Doyle's cool voice drifted into the silence. "Whose mistress was she?" He possessed the ability to pick just the right question.

"De Lambrière's," answered Bodie, his thoughts far away. "But she assured me he had quit Paris to visit his estates. We were never seen about together." He omitted to mention that from their first meeting all their time together had been spent in her gilded bedchamber, where there had been no communication problems at all.

"I've a notion you weren't careful enough. De Lambrière has a long reach and the ear of the King. It would be well within his power to obtain a lettre de cachet. But I commend your choice. She's a fetching piece. If you enjoy poaching your light o' loves from others, it's as well to start with the cream of society. But you were too ambitious in this instance. De Lambrière has never been known to part with any of his possessions. A pity," Doyle added lightly.

"A pity," exploded Bodie. "A pity! You numbskull. If that's the only consolation you have to offer, I suggest you remain silent."

"Lord, Pêche was right," said Doyle. "He went to great pains to warn me you wouldn't welcome sharing your cell. It's obvious he was correct. It's no wonder your doxy grew tired of your tantrums."

His expression murderous, Bodie swung across the cell, intent on quieting that derisive voice. He halted the blow that would have re-arranged the other man's mocking face at the last moment. Fighting his rage, he clamped his fingers around the belt of his trousers in case they ended up around the other man's throat as he belatedly recognised the deliberate provocation that had been behind the seemingly innocent conversation from the beginning.

"You pox-ridden bastard," he breathed. "To connive so cunningly..." He backed away because he did not trust his own control. It would have been so easy to give the other man the oblivion he sought.

There was a fleeting look of something very like disappointment on Doyle's face before he thought to mask his expression, his features assuming a look of truculent resignation. As Bodie watched, the other man relaxed, no longer tensed for the killing fury he had deliberately provoked.

"So, Mister Raymond Doyle," he said, silky with rage when he recognised just how skilfully he had been manipulated. "You want to die but lack the courage to make a clean job of it yourself." Conscious of the other man's start of surprise, he gave a harsh laugh, his face devoid of pity. "You flatter your skills of deception if you imagined I wouldn't recognise your intent. Confinement may have dulled my wits but not to that degree. I've met others who have shared your wish but at least they sought to resolve the problem for themselves. I should have recognised your purpose from the first. Devil take it, no one is this aggravating unless they are dull-witted - or they try very, very hard."

Doyle made no attempt to answer the accusation. His head bent, he seemed to be trying to withdraw totally from what was being said. His docility angered Bodie afresh. Grasping a handful of the thick hair, he gave the other man a light, contemptuous slap before swinging Doyle's head around with another. Doyle's eyes shot open.

"I'm glad to have your complete attention. I regret having to disappoint you, but I've never been in the business of assassination, whatever Pêche may have led you to believe. If that was the case he would be my first client. You, you're not worth the bother, you gutless little worm!" There was a blistering contempt in Bodie's voice.

Doyle remained stubbornly silent. With some deliberation he closed his eyes, blocking Bodie from his consciousness, but his breathing was ragged.

While Doyle had made no attempt to retaliate or defend himself, Bodie had been aware of the quick flare of anger the other man had been unable to suppress. There had been no fear on his face, just a hard resolve concealed beneath the seeming uninterest. Puzzled, he released Doyle and sought refuge in his own corner of the cell. He had much to reflect upon.

For the first time since he had been detained the hours sped by as he tried to rationalise what had almost taken place with what he sensed of Doyle's character. There were a number of anomalies which prevented him from believing that the other man would submit tamely to captivity. He understood both depression and rage in the face of imprisonment - but to seek death without a struggle was inconceivable to him.

Trying to ignore the physical presence of the motionless figure opposite him, Bodie became increasingly uneasy. His temper was usually under better control but his quick, hot rages had not equipped him to deal with the black depression emanating from the still figure in the corner. The sharp exchange had proved to his satisfaction that whatever Doyle might choose to believe, he had no deep-seated desire to end his existence. Bodie didn't choose to analyse why that knowledge should be so satisfying.

Aware that he was spending an unwarranted amount of time contemplating the motivations of a virtual stranger, Bodie tried to continue with his daily routine as if he was alone. It wasn't easy to begin his exercises, knowing his movements were bound to attract the other man's attention, but Doyle didn't stir and gradually Bodie lost his self-conscious air.

That evening as he settled down to sleep, it occurred to Bodie with something of a shock that Doyle hadn't stirred from where he sat propped against the wall; his back very straight, his eyes were closed, his face set. He would be appallingly stiff when he did change position.

Reminding himself that Doyle's behaviour was no concern of his, Bodie closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind so he could sleep. The unfamiliar sound of someone moving around woke him. Instantly alert, he leant up on one elbow, relaxing as, in the dim light, he saw Doyle leave the far corner below the steps that he used as a privy for want of any other facilities. Reassured, Bodie settled back down to sleep, resolving that tomorrow he would do something to bring this sulky silence to an end.

He jerked upright a moment later when he heard the clang of the water jug being kicked over.

"You blundering dolt," he hissed, keeping his voice low only with great effort. "I know it's dark in here but fiend seize it, try to look where you're treading."

Doyle's humourless laugh was designed to conceal how shaken he was. "I should like to," he said with malicious simplicity, "but as I am blind, that's going to be rather difficult." There was a startled silence and for one glorious moment he wondered if he had succeeded in puncturing a little of the other man's arrogant certainty.

"Damn, that's all I needed," said Bodie in a tone of weary disgust.

His sense of direction gone and his head hurting abominably, Doyle gave a crack of laughter at the fervent honesty in his cell-mate's voice. It was that or cry.

Getting slowly to his feet, Bodie padded across the cell, needing to see the other man properly. Their acquaintance had begun badly and they would have to make some effort to rub along together if they were to live in such close proximity. He was taken aback to discover that Doyle should have been able to conceal his blindness for so long. He understood why the other man had tried to hide his lack of sight. After being regaled with Pêche's tales it could be no pleasant thing to be thrust, blind, in with a stranger. Pushing aside his feeling of pity, Bodie stared assessingly at his cell-mate, who was engaged in brushing himself down.

They appeared to be of an age, but Doyle was a trifle shorter and slighter than himself. Bodie suspected his fragile air was deceptive, despite the boisterously curling hair, which gave him an angelic appearance at total variance with his present expression. As if seeking to further refute the charge Doyle swore colourfully but without passion when he discovered a new rent in his shirt. It seemed impossible that he could be blind; those wide-spaced eyes were too alive.

"I am constrained to remind you that it is considered the height of bad manners to stare," announced Doyle, a hard edge to his voice.

Disconcerted, Bodie stepped away from the gaze directed at him. "Are you sure you cannot see?" he blurted out.

"Rot you, do you seriously imagine I would stoop to lying about a thing like that!" There was raw anguish in Doyle's voice.

Furious with himself for letting the casual question splinter his precarious, hard-won calm, he spun away from Bodie's almost overwhelming vitality and walked, with some force, into the wall. Hands pressed flat against the dank stone, his knee and face smarting from the impact, he remained there for a moment, willing himself not to break down. It was the final humiliation.

Bodie stared at the other man's rigid back in an uncomprehending silence. Belatedly it occurred to him how he would feel if their circumstances were reversed. He closed his eyes, then quickly opened them again, peering gratefully through the gloom. He tried to decide upon the best approach to take with Doyle, while wondering why he should be so concerned with the other man's finer feelings.

"No, I don't believe you would lie about it. I was merely surprised at the ease with which you had disguised your lack of vision until now," he said mildly. "I'm bound to point out that you're unlikely to escape me by attempting to walk through the wall. You're also wet. Come, let me assist you." The tone of the offer was casual in the extreme.

"I don't need any help," grated Doyle, not daring to move. He had never felt so finally and completely helpless in his life and he knew there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

"Ah, so you make a habit of doing this, do you?" inquired Bodie. "May I suggest you save your English phlegm until you have an audience who will appreciate it. I'm not a great believer in it myself." He placed a hand under Doyle's arm. It was knocked away with a jarring force.

"Damn you, I don't need a wet-nurse!"

Doyle stumbled on the uneven floor and would have fallen if Bodie hadn't caught him. Unseen, Bodie gave the furious face an admiring grin, refusing to be ruffled or rebuffed. His own stubborn nature overrode his inclination to leave the other man to his own devices.

"Perhaps not," he conceded, "but you're going to receive help whether you want it or not." There was a note of determination in his voice that told Doyle any further argument would be pointless.

Giving a weary sigh he allowed himself to be steered back up the cell and seated himself under the window. His mumbled thanks almost choked him.

"You're welcome. There's some food to your right. I apologise for the lack of water," Bodie added, cheered by the signs of temper. He could deal with that.

"I'm not hungry," Doyle told him ungraciously.

"Did I ask if you were hungry? Eat," commanded Bodie in exasperation. "Or do you intend to argue over every plaguey thing I say?"

Doyle directed his scowl where he judged the other man to be.

"A little more to your left," Bodie said helpfully.

Doyle's mouth twitched appreciatively before he surrendered and began to laugh. "I knew I was correct in assuming you wouldn't care to play the nursemaid," he said, sobering. "My behaviour has been abominable. I regret trying to goad you earlier, I was not myself." He was surprised to realise he meant it; it felt good to be alive.

"You would have regretted it even more if your plan had succeeded," Bodie informed him disagreeably. The memory of how easily he had been manipulated still stung.

"Yes, I suppose I would," Doyle accepted meekly. He was beginning to appreciate that what John Brown said did not always reflect what he thought; his voice betrayed little of what was in his mind. "Do you normally hold a grudge for long?"

"No." Bodie answered without thinking, then paused to subject Doyle's too innocent expression to a hard stare. "Why?"

"I'm not going to relish being reminded of this inauspicious beginning to our relationship twenty years from now."

"You don't think we'll still be here?"

Catching the fleeting note of desperation in his cell-mate's voice, for the first time it occurred to Doyle that he wasn't the only one with problems.

"Of course not," he lied. "Not one of my most successful attempts at humour. Between us we should be able to contrive some way of getting out of here." Seeking to lighten the brooding atmosphere, he broke off a piece of the hardtack he was holding. "Here, you must be famished."

About to protest, Bodie accepted the peace offering for what it was. They ate in a companionable silence.

"Perhaps we could start afresh," Bodie suggested casually, sometime later.

Doyle looked up, his expression wary.

"I meant exactly what I said," Bodie said, smiling at the other man's caution. "Some changes are imperative if we are to live together amicably. Doubtless you're aware that you've cut your face. You'll have little skin left to abuse and I shall become very thirsty. Can we accept that you are blind and go on from there?"

"The next time I trip over something I'll endeavour to ensure that the water jug is empty," Doyle promised him.

Bodie laughed and there was a greater ease between the two men as they began to accustom themselves to each other's company.

---

CORNWALL, MAY 1983

Jack Hodge sat morosely nursing his pint of bitter under the watchful eye of his wife.

"Drink up, Jack," she encouraged with a brisk impatience, tapping her empty sherry glass with a well-manicured nail. "We're due back at Thelma's at four."

Hodge huddled further down on his wrought-iron chair. "I know," he mumbled unhappily. "Linda, couldn't we give it a miss this afternoon? Take the kids down to the beach, or something. You know I hate her bridge afternoons."

"No we couldn't," she told him, not pausing to consider his request. "It won't hurt you to look after the kids for once. You can chat to Maurice."

Hodge gave an inward shudder at the thought, then resigned himself to his fate.

His wife's voice sharpened as distant, shrieking figures caught her eye. "Luke, stop that at once! Jane, what are you wearing? Well give them back to Mark this instant. Hopeless, take your eyes off them for a moment... I'll see you back at the car," she told her husband before she headed purposefully after her brood of children.

Hodge watched her neat figure disappear with a lingering frown before he roused himself to glare balefully around the near-deserted pub garden. Bloody holidays, he thought for perhaps the fifth time that day. He'd only been away three days and he was already homesick. Wedded bliss had few attractions for him at the best of times; away from the Smoke and the club it had none.

It had been a long time since he had spent more than a few hours alone with the family; he'd make sure it stayed that way. He should never have married her in the first place. Dave had tried to warn him but she was Ted Connolly's only child; his prospects had never seemed brighter. Now he was stuck with her till death did them part. You didn't dump Connolly's daughter - unless you had a death wish. It hadn't been too bad at first, but it was like she'd changed personality once she'd got the ring on her finger - and one through his nose.

Connolly had changed too. Eight years inside had done something to him, like his mainspring had gone. Since getting out at the beginning of the year he'd shown no sign of wanting to get back to business. True, there'd been a lot of changes in the time he'd been away; maybe Ted had lost his touch. Or maybe that had gone the year Ted had appointed an undercover cop planted by the Drugs Squad as his right-hand man. Hodge felt a surge of hatred for what might have been if only he'd been around rather than off on his sodding honeymoon.

Remembering what the doctor had told him about keeping his blood pressure down, he took a calming swallow of beer and idly scanned the other occupied tables, where customers were enjoying the sunshine in the tiny garden of 'The Drunken Duck'. The table closest to his own held another family. He stared at the mild-faced husband who was encouraging his youngest to 'blow', cheered by the thought of someone else sharing his state of misery. Losing interest, his gaze slid over the other tables.

Beer slopped from his glass as he stared with disbelief at the two figures sitting at a table over by the duck pond. The dark one was a stranger to him - a hard man by the look of him - but that other one. It might have been over nine years ago but he never forgot a face. Had good reason to remember this one. Turn around, you sod, he thought viciously. Turn around and let's see if it's really you. A quick call to some of the lads up in Town and his holiday could start to take an unexpected turn for the better. Maybe he'd found just the tonic Ted needed to buck him up a bit.

---

PARIS, NOVEMBER 1788

After a week Doyle had borne all he was prepared to of his cell-mate's sour humour. Brown had woken in a foul temper, his mood worsening as the day progressed. Doyle could hear him pacing; the impression he gave was that if he had a tail it would be lashing.

"Would it help to discuss what is disturbing you?" he asked quietly.

"No," Bodie snapped.

"Then what do you want?" Doyle demanded, on the edge of losing his own temper because he felt he could be of no use to anyone.

"A barber, a bath, something decent to eat and drink, a woman, and some clean linen."

"In that order?"

"In any pox-ridden order," bellowed Bodie in frustration. He threw out an expressive arm and inadvertently grazed his knuckles against the cell wall; he bit off an expletive, glaring at the amusement on Doyle's face when he guessed what must have happened. "Very droll," he said in a biting tone.

With no wish to fan the flames, Doyle struggled to control his expression.

"I suppose you have no desire for any of those?" Bodie jeered. "You'll be lecturing me on the wisdom of accepting one's lot in life next. Or do you propose to tell me that things could be worse?"

Sitting cross-legged in his corner, Doyle tried to judge where the other man might be. "You know they could be," he pointed out, unruffled.

"I wonder if you have any concept of how irritating I find you the majority of the time?" His breath gusting in Doyle's face, Bodie's tone was that of a man who has been tried too far.

Doyle pushed forcefully at the man leaning over him, refusing to feel intimidated. "Only too well if your behaviour is any indication. Stop behaving like a spoilt child. We're imprisoned. Accept it until we can think of a fool-proof way of escaping. I like it no better than you." His scowl reduced Bodie to silence. "Sit down and consider. You might not regard it highly, but while we are incarcerated, we are not chained. We are fed regularly. Whether the notion pleases you or not you must now share your solitude. Is that so bad? You could spend the next forty years in darkness, chained to a wall surrounded by your own filth."

"Possibly," growled Bodie, refusing to be placated. "Everyone gets fed," he asserted, in the mood to argue every point.

"Do they?" Doyle did not trouble to disguise the mocking amusement in his voice.

Pausing, Bodie gave the thin figure an assessing glance; it lengthened as he took in the hollows beneath the cheekbones and the prominent bones beneath his ragged clothes.

"You do have a lean and hungry look," he conceded. "Why did they stop feeding you?"

Doyle was regretting having mentioned the matter. "I found that to be one of the gaoler's more acceptable foibles," he evaded, as if that explained everything.

About to pursue the point, Bodie recalled his first week of captivity. Pêche had visited him every night. Confused, angry and disorientated by his sudden imprisonment, he had seen nothing beyond the gaoler's quiet questions and the guards' bored distaste than a weakness which he might exploit. Then had come the night when Pêche had told him what it was that he desired. It wasn't an unfamiliar offer. On this occasion his own explosive response had almost taken him past the three guards to the door. Beaten to the point where he could not resist, he had lain in the straw as the turnkey's now gentle hands explored him. Pêche hadn't sought to do more than that, nor had he visited him again, except to oversee the occasional beating, but Bodie knew he could at any time. He also knew how fortunate he was that, for reasons best known to himself, Pêche sought an acquiescent partner - or at least one he could take pleasure in wearing down rather than breaking.

"I wondered why Pêche ceased to importune me," he said, having no wish to enter into a prolonged discussion on the topic. "So far we have both been fortunate. No doubt, should it become necessary, we could survive on single rations if he resumed his attentions. I wish he would come here unescorted just once," Bodie added wistfully.

"Dismiss that notion from your mind," commanded Doyle, his voice sharp. He caught hold of Bodie's arm to reinforce his point. "I mean it, Brown. It isn't worth it. Nothing is."

Bodie stared at him with distaste. "You suggest I should just lie back and permit Pêche to take whatever he wants?"

"If that is the only means of staying alive, of course."

Bodie gave a contemptuous laugh. "I suppose that is the only course of action left open to you."

Doyle released him immediately. "Because I'm blind?"

"If you care to make that your excuse," said Bodie with brutal frankness. Watching the colour drain from Doyle's face, he wished the remark unsaid. But the thought that the other man was prepared to capitulate so easily infuriated him. He didn't appear to be of the kidney to submit meekly; he was proving himself to be about as fragile as the Bastille itself.

Bodie looked up but Doyle's head was slightly averted. Something in his uncommunicative profile made Bodie look away again; it felt too much like prying. Fidgeting restlessly in the straw, he finally broke the uncomfortable silence that had fallen, knowing he had been in the wrong from the first.

"I am the last person who should judge the correct course of action another should take," he admitted uncomfortably. "There are any number of events in my own life that I do not regard with any pride but they were necessary to survive. I apologise for my earlier comment," he added with unusual diffidence.

There was no one present to tell Doyle how rare it was to receive an apology from this self-sufficient man. Bodie cared little for the opinion of others and was not renowned for his consideration for their feelings. Drawing his knees up to his chest and propping his chin on them, Doyle seemed to be staring directly at the other man, as if seeking to learn what lay behind that awkward apology.

"It doesn't signify," he dismissed. Falling silent, he was lost in his memories. They brought their own responsibilities. While Brown was infuriating, exasperating and provoking beyond measure, he would be reluctant to see the tentative understanding that was forming between them destroyed.

Getting to his feet, he paced restlessly up and down the centre of the cell. "Neither of us is accustomed to being helpless," he announced. "But I meant what I said earlier. If Pêche comes again, for either of us, accept it as best you can." His voice lost all trace of warmth. "I thought I could best them. I was mistaken. That one error of judgement cost me my sight."

A chill running down his spine, Bodie stared at him. "How?" he croaked, although the last thing he wanted was to become further involved with his cell-mate.

Turning away from him, Doyle's voice was determinedly casual. "In the ensuing fight after Pêche had made his offer I succeeded in disabling him with a chance kick. Two guards restrained me at bayonet point. When Pêche recovered, he knocked me clear across the cell. He is stronger than you give him credit for. When I recovered consciousness I was blind. I have just stopped believing that one morning I will awake and be able to see again."

"It is possible," Bodie encouraged, an empathic shudder going through him.

"Enough!" Doyle's voice broke before it steadied again. "I dare not start believing that or - You witnessed the state of melancholy into which I had fallen. It's - it's so cursed hard to accept that... It's hard," he repeated, his voice barely audible.

Bodie could think of nothing he could offer that would ease the other man's distress. When Doyle turned, he winced at the other man's bleak expression.

"To set your mind at rest, my virtue is unsullied. I just don't believe the price was worth it. Close your eyes and try to remember that darkness if Pêche should return."

There was a tight note of desperation in the roughened voice. Concerned that Doyle might expect some emotional response that he could not give, Bodie launched into speech. "I will endeavour to keep that in mind," he promised. "Now sit down, I grow dizzy trying to follow you. You never did mention your occupation prior to your arrest."

"I was an artist."

After that bald announcement Bodie had the sense to let the conversation lapse.

---

CORNWALL, MAY 1983

"You're not seriously proposing to eat all that after the meal the vicar's wife fed us?" demanded Doyle, revolted.

"Watch me," invited Bodie as he took a luxurious bite from a cream-laden scone. He systematically set about clearing the plate, pausing only when he came to the last scone. "You sure you don't want one?" he asked as he slathered it in jam that actually tasted of strawberries.

Nauseated, Doyle shook his head. "Positive. You're indecent. I dunno where you put it."

"Hollow legs and clean living, mate." Bodie flopped back on his chair and eyed the surviving scone with a pensive eye. "Maybe I won't," he conceded, feeling decidedly full.

"Can't take it, eh?"

"Nothing of the sort. But you wouldn't want them wasting away, would you?"

"Who?"

Bodie picked up the plate. "C'mon, let's go feed the ducks. That stroppy one on the left reminds me of you."

Sometimes it was like having a small kid in tow, thought Doyle with resignation as he followed his partner down to the lake's edge. He resisted the temptation to push the crouched figure into the water. Even the appalling amount he had eaten wouldn't slow Bodie down enough for him to get away with that unscathed.

Relaxed in the sunshine and the rare pleasure of being off-duty and together, neither of them noticed the reaction of the lone man at a table behind them, or the speed with which he went in search of a phone.

---

PARIS, NOVEMBER 1788 - JANUARY 1789

The walls of the cell ran damp as winter tightened its hold, their breath white in the cold air. After a week of spartan self-sufficiency and precious little sleep, they collected all the straw into one corner and slept huddled together for warmth. At first they were self-conscious about the enforced intimacy of their position but within a couple of days they had ceased to think anything of it, the imperative to survive paramount.

Bodie had been forced to abandon his exercise programme because he had become too weak for long periods of strenuous physical activity, the bone-numbing cold eroding any surplus energy he may have had. As conditions in the cell grew more uncomfortable Bodie and Doyle's relationship improved. They talked for hours, finding that although their backgrounds and experiences were, for the most part, wildly different, they had enough in common to enjoy each other's exploits.

Gradually their discussions embraced edited personal reminiscences. Doyle spoke mainly of his early life, referring with amused affection to his large and boisterous family, while avoiding any mention of the recent past. Bodie offered little information voluntarily, but did deign to tell Doyle a few ribald or humorous exploits, selected to betray as little as possible of himself. Still their growing friendship flourished, almost despite themselves.

Of course there were black periods, and fierce arguments, quite apart from the daily irritations that came from sharing such a small area with one other person day after dragging day. Even when the atmosphere between them was at its most vitriolic both men admitted, if only to themselves, the relief of having someone who understood the bleak moments when blindness and the confines of the cell came to seem well-nigh unendurable.



Busy finger-combing his tangled mat of hair into some kind of order and wincing when he found a particularly vicious tangle, Doyle's head turned in the direction of Bodie's engrossed figure.

"Somehow I've a notion that John Brown isn't your baptismal name," he mused. "You don't possess the manner of a 'Brown', which is a comfortable, middle-aged sort of name. Reassuring."

Bodie looked up from where he was attempting to free a metal bar from the mortar. "Why can't I believe you intend that for a compliment?" he replied, playing for time. "Brown isn't my baptismal name, as it happens. I haven't used that for years - since I ran away from home, as a matter of fact. A name is of little consequence, when all is said and done."

"I suppose it isn't," conceded Doyle, filing away that snippet of information. "But that being the case, I fail to see why I should use the name 'Brown'. What is your number?"

"I refuse to answer to a number," Bodie told him firmly. "That apart, call me what you will."

"That must qualify as the most tempting offer I've received all week," said Doyle, smiling. "I shall have to consider this. You require something brisk and to the point. It has been a source of constant amusement to me how often you forget to answer to John Brown."

"Nonsense," said Bodie, but with little real conviction.

"It's true," insisted Doyle. "You're sadly lacking in imagination. Only you could have selected a name as unimaginative as John Brown."

What would you suggest - something like Raymond Doyle?" Bodie's voice was dry.

Doyle gave an impish grin. "The name is already taken. It is, incidentally, my own." He met Bodie's derisive snort with a shrug of acknowledgement.

"I know, but would you voluntarily accept such an outlandish name as Raymond? Of course you would not. My sister, of course, claims to believe that it becomes me. This was her doing." Doyle gestured to the injured cheekbone, which gave his profile such a piquant charm.

Bodie was already acquainted with the large and confusing Doyle clan; he had heard a great deal of their exploits in the weeks he and Doyle had spent together, primarily about Doyle's nieces and nephews, for whom he had an inordinate affection. Every person in the family had been painted for him in vivid, one-line character sketches.

"Catherine did that?" he asked, interested despite himself.

"My dear, sweet Kitty. I cannot conceive what I did to deserve a sister such as her. It's a wonder I survived to manhood. Did I neglect to tell you of the time she knocked me out?" Doyle added, his face alive with laughter. "She has as true a left hook as you will ever come across."

"You're fortunate to have such a family. I think," added Bodie as he recovered from Doyle's rendition of his own unheroic part in the tale. His face muscles ached from laughter but there was an echo of sadness in his voice. Doyle had conjured up the sunny, carefree days of childhood, surrounded by a loving, mischievous family; very different from his own bleak upbringing.

"What about your own family?" asked Doyle.

"I don't possess one," Bodie said, tensing.

"Nonsense. Everyone has a family, even you."

"Are you daring to pity me?" Bodie demanded, forgetting that his menacing stare was wasted on the other man.

Doyle gave an infuriating grin. "I fancy that I am. Self-sufficiency is all very well, if not carried to excess. Never fear, I don't bite. And I give you my word that I won't hold the fact you have a mother, just like everyone else, against you."

"I prefer not to talk about myself," Bodie told him in a repressive tone, but he sensed he was wasting his breath. Doyle was far too astute at reading between the lines. He might trust the man, but not that much; he had never trusted anyone that much.

"I had noticed," Doyle assured him. "But why so mysterious? I'm tired of hearing the sound of my own voice and I refuse to believe some of the tales you've spun for me about your life as a mercenary."

"Are you doubting my honour?" demanded Bodie, hiding behind anger.

"No, but I believe you have a talent for embroidering the truth," replied Doyle, refusing to be intimidated by the cold menace in the silken voice.

A choke of laughter escaped Bodie's controls. "You may be right," he admitted, "but the truth is really very tedious."

"That's twice in one day," Doyle said with a trace of smug satisfaction.

"Twice what?" asked Bodie, puzzled.

"Twice I've made you laugh in one day."

Bodie glared at him, all traces of good humour leaving his face. "You're not the most joyous of companions yourself at times," he pointed out, angry at being made to feel like an interesting specimen being dissected. Ignoring the feeling of hurt that he should be only a source of entertainment for his cell-mate, he sat with his shoulders hunched, scowling across at Doyle.

"I know that," said Doyle, cursing himself for having broken the light-hearted mood he had worked so hard to create.

It had been a source of great pleasure to hear Brown's rich chuckle and to hear him offer something of himself without prompting. Now every barrier had risen against him. He could feel the tension emanating from the other man and was suddenly flooded with a longing to see Brown's face - to see behind the disguises Brown had learnt to adopt in his voice.

Getting up, Doyle moved restlessly around the cell, pacing out his stride automatically now. They had arranged their meagre possessions so that he knew exactly where everything was placed and there had been no further accidents.

Bodie often forgot his companion's lack of sight because Doyle persisted in trying to pretend it didn't exist, even as he fought to come to terms with it. Looking at Doyle's lack of expression, Bodie recognised the first signs of one of the black depressions which overtook the other man on occasion. Doyle was a born fighter, and made valiant efforts to accept his lack of sight, but it was a totality which came near to defeating him at times. To his surprise, Bodie found himself wanting to help Doyle through those dark periods. It was then that Bodie would talk freely, prepared to do whatever was necessary to draw Doyle from his melancholy, be it with humour, anger or pathos. Doyle had done as much for him on the days when captivity brought Bodie close to the point of trying to ram his fist through the wall. He had learnt that Doyle was unshockable and usually unflappable. He respected Doyle's opinions, and had learnt to tread lightly when the other man lost his formidable temper.

As the weeks passed, Bodie began to feel that he had known the other man all his life. Accepting Doyle as a friend, he had grown accustomed to his quirks of character. It didn't occur to Bodie that he could afford to relax his guards - or that Doyle might already have seen behind them.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I jumped ship in Turkey and ended up in the Seraglio?" Bodie offered casually into the tension-ridden silence.

Doyle halted mid-stride, then turned, suspicion on his face; he was quite clearly in no mood to be humoured. "No, and don't bother," he snapped aggressively.

He was obviously spoiling for a fight. Refusing to accommodate him, Bodie hid his grin. "Well, if I'm boring you," he murmured, retreating into a hurt silence. He had soon learnt how to manipulate his volatile cell-mate, who was too tender-hearted for his own good on occasion.

After a few minutes Doyle could stand it no longer. He stalked to where he judged Bodie to be and stood over him, glowering. "I'll wager you're looking like a whipped pup. Damn it, will you stop humouring me." Pausing, the anger drained from his expression. "After all this time I still have no notion of your appearance."

"Well you wouldn't, would you?" Bodie said, without thinking. He saw Doyle flinch and touched him lightly on the arm. "Sorry. But it seems of little consequence. I'm no oil painting at present."

"An oil painting I can do without," Doyle told him, smiling at that endearing display of vanity. His interest caught, he sank down beside Bodie. "But what do you look like? How old are you? What colour is your hair, your eyes? What build are you? Do you realise how little I know of you?" he demanded, realising how many of the details he had always taken for granted were denied him. They had come to assume an immense importance in his mind, reinforcing his feelings of isolation and helplessness.

"Five and twenty, and I am of medium height and build," replied Bodie promptly.

"Five and - Is that all?" Doyle's voice rose with indignation. "From the tales you have been spinning me I thought you must be fifty at least."

"I started young," Bodie explained winningly, but his blue eyes were wary.

Doyle gave a snort of disbelief. "In the cradle, more like. Hellfire, I have a three-year advantage over you but I seem to have wasted an inordinate amount of time if your example is anything to go by."

"There's no immediate cause for concern," Bodie told him comfortably. "You've kept your boyish good looks." If he hoped to divert or distract his companion he failed.

Doyle knelt up opposite him. "It's strange to think I shall never know what you look like. A voice is so little to go by." Reaching out a tentative hand, he stilled the gesture at the last moment, feeling shy at the intimacy of what he proposed.

Bodie drew back. "What do you intend?" His voice was wary in the extreme.

"Hell's teeth. Not what you're panicking about, that's for sure," said Doyle with a delighted gurgle of amusement. The laughter slowly faded from his face. "But I should like to gain some notion of the shape of your face, to judge the symmetry or otherwise of your features, to discover what I may of your appearance." His hand opened. "My fingers will have to act as my eyes - if you have no objection?" he added hesitantly.

Bodie had any number of objections, although he would have been reluctant to voice any of them. He studied Doyle's uncertain face, his expression relaxing as he realised Doyle would never ask this of him again if he was refused now. Besides, he was curious how he would appear to the other man.

"I have no objection," he lied.

Taking Doyle's fingers in his own, Bodie placed them on either side of his face and sat very still, hardly daring to breathe. Try as he might, he could not be entirely matter-of-fact about this. He felt a rush of heat under his skin as the long fingers gently explored him. The feather-light touch drifted over his cheeks, tracing down his nose, spanning it as Doyle judged the proportions of the face. Obedient to the unspoken request, Bodie closed his eyes, his long lashes quivering under the delicate touch. Sitting in the dark, he shivered, feeling vulnerable and exposed as Doyle continued to draw his image with his hands.

The sulky look had vanished from Doyle's face, overtaken by total concentration. His hands curved around Bodie's head; fingers probed the bone before he ran his hands back to trace the contours of the skull, finally coming to rest on the base of the strong neck.

Of necessity they knelt close together, Doyle's breath warm against Bodie's cheek. His light touch both teased and stimulated after so much sensory deprivation and Bodie gave a small gasp of surprise when he felt himself stir.

"I've not hurt you?" Doyle asked in quick concern. He was too engrossed in the image his hands were supplying to think of the effect his actions might be having on flesh starved of touch.

A haunted look in his eyes, Bodie nervously licked dry lips, willing his errant flesh to subside before it could betray him utterly. It had been too long, that was the simple truth of it, but he would not enjoy explaining that to Ray Doyle.

"Of course not. I'm sensitive around the neck, that is all," he said.

"I must remember that," said Doyle lightly, seeking to reduce the intensity of the moment.

Bodie sat motionless as hands cupped his face once more, tracing over his cheeks and beard before they sought out his mouth, which tightened a little. Abruptly Doyle removed his hands.

"Your hair is dark and you have dark - no, dark blue eyes," he guessed, making no reference to the tension he had felt in the muscles over the jaw.

"That's correct," said Bodie, declining to be impressed. "Well, do I pass muster?"

"You were correct, you're no oil painting," Doyle remarked, flippant as he tried to conceal the effect warm skin and the other man's submission were having on him. "But I could paint you, John Brown. You've an interesting face, and one that doesn't care to be read. You also have the strangest eyebrows I have ever encountered."

"My compliments, but they suit me well enough. Are you in the habit of making these kind of examinations?"

Familiar lines of amusement appeared at the edges of the green eyes. "No, I am not. I am considered eccentric enough as it is. Perhaps I should consider taking up face-reading if all else fails?"

"Only as a last resort," retorted Bodie, flicking an affectionate finger at the other man's nose.

Doyle's eyes widened in surprise. "Do that again."

"What?" Uncertain what his companion meant, Bodie stared at him.

Doyle clambered to his feet, then bent to urge Bodie up. "Do it again. Aim for my face."

Feeling foolish, Bodie did so. "Do you mind telling me why?"

"I've been giving a great deal of thought to our situation, and to quitting this place in particular. The odds are not favourable. One man has little hope of success against Pêche and two armed guards, but if we could both fight... No one would expect an attack to come from me. At present the best I could hope to do would be to place a lucky blow. But it may be that I could be taught to fight blind."

"You really believe that's possible?" With no desire to quash the other man's enthusiasm, Bodie tried to keep the doubt from his voice.

"We won't know until we try, will we?" said Doyle with a confidence he was far from feeling. "This is a chance for you to prove your skills as an instructor."

He had already come to the conclusion that they could not sit passively enduring their confinement. It was time they began to channel their energies into some constructive activity. Until his hands had cupped the other man's face he had not appreciated how starved for touch he was, how vulnerable all his senses would be to the insidious pleasure of skin against warm skin. This development of new skills would provide them with an opportunity of ridding themselves of the self-consciousness which was slowly building between them; it might even prove to be useful.

"Feint a punch to my left, would you?" he requested briskly.

Giving an acquiescent shrug, Bodie complied, making no allowances for the other man's lack of sight.

"And again," said Doyle.

Concentrating, he listened out for every small clue he was offered as Bodie moved, feeling the air change around him, hearing the rustle of straw and cloth and trying to understand what these changes in sound signified. The third time Bodie struck out Doyle judged the blow well enough to avoid it, his own fist stopping an inch short of Bodie's ear.

"Not bad," said Bodie with a hard smile of approval, swallowing his surprise at the other man's quick reflexes and obvious ability.

His hands on his hips, Doyle gave him a knowing grin. "Not bad? Try it from the right this time, and be warned, I've a useful right hook."

By the end of the day they were both breathless and tired. By the end of the week, while they were physically fitter and better pleased with their progress, they were exhausted.

---

CORNWALL, MAY 1983

Bodie watched with resignation as his partner effortlessly wound the young records clerk around his finger, ensuring her complete co-operation rather than grudging instructions. Half-listening to her explanations and attempts to flirt with an impervious Ray Doyle, he swore under his breath when he saw the retrieval system they would be using and the amount of material they would have to sift through.

"What time do you close?" he asked, trying not to sound hopeful that they wouldn't have time.

"Five-thirty." She spared him only the briefest of glances.

"Then we've got bags of time," said Doyle cheerfully, straightening his face as Bodie glared at him. "Thanks for your help, love. See you later."

As she walked away, Bodie watched the sway of her hips with a reminiscent pleasure. "There should be a law against what you've just done to her," he told his partner severely.

Slipping the first cassette into the reader and putting it on fast forward, Doyle gave him an absent grin. "There is, mate. Did you see her - ?"

" - couldn't miss 'em, sunshine. Very nice." Seating himself at the adjoining machine, Bodie flicked on the power. "Do you miss it?" he asked with idle interest, as he stared at the blank screen, anticipating the boredom to come.

"Miss what?" asked Doyle absently as he scanned the narrow obituary columns.

"Women, and all that embraces."

Doyle spared him a look of surprise. "I hadn't really thought about it," he confessed.

"Think about it."

Doyle gave his altered life style due consideration for a full ten seconds. "No, I don't miss it." There was a high-pitched buzz as he activated the fast forward switch again. "Do you?"

Bodie decided his partner was looking far too sure of himself. "No. Well, sometimes," he admitted, with just the right trace of reluctance.

He had succeeded in gaining the other man's full attention. His eyebrows drawn together in a frown, Doyle stared at him, his eyes darkened by anxiety and doubt.

"You don't pinch my razor to defuzz your legs," Bodie explained, all innocence. He was laughing too much at how easily he had caught Doyle out to dodge his partner's retaliatory punch. Dismissing thoughts of the flippant conversation, Bodie did not notice the new wariness in Doyle's eyes, or his subdued manner.

---

PARIS, FEBRUARY - MAY 1789

"I am too told for this kind of exertion," complained Doyle mournfully. He flexed stiffened muscles and discovered new bruises acquired when one or both of them had miscalculated in a practice session.

Their workouts extended for hours now, neither man giving or expecting any quarter. Bodie was an excellent teacher, possessing a patience Doyle had not expected to find and the knack of explaining exactly what he meant. For his own part, Doyle found he was learning some valuable additions to his fighting skills, although undoubtedly some of the holds would have been frowned upon in polite society. But he refused to admit how exhausted the intense concentration and physical exertion left him.

"Nearing your dotage, more like," Bodie told him with a scant lack of sympathy.

Doyle refused to allow himself to be treated as disadvantaged in any way and had inevitably taken some painful falls. Bodie yelped when a calloused hand swatted his rump as he bent to pick up their food. Straightening, he advanced on his cell-mate, who retreated, his face alive with amusement.

"Try that again," Bodie invited, his voice deceptively mild.

"You wouldn't strike a blind man," pleaded Doyle, breathless with laughter as he tried to place where the other man might be.

"Try me," Bodie threatened. He advanced stealthily out of respect for Doyle's improved skills and lightning-fast reflexes before he came an abrupt standstill. "Do you realise this is the first time you've been able to make light of your lack of sight?"

"I know." Doyle's expression changed as he stood in uncertain silence, wishing fiercely that he could see. There were times when it wasn't enough to read what lay behind that deceptively smooth voice and often caustic wit. This was one of them.

"Then we'll say no more about it," said Bodie, prepared to be magnanimous. "Shall we eat? Then you can resign yourself to hearing the next exciting instalment in my life history," he offered rashly, more because he was worried by the expression which had crossed Doyle's face than because he had any desire to exchange personal confidences.

"That will have the value of novelty. You don't rattle on about yourself. What I know of you would fit, with ease, onto the head of a pin."

"So much?" marvelled Bodie.

Sitting cross-legged in the straw, Doyle picked up his bowl, then glanced up. "It isn't my turn for the spoon this week, is it?"

"No, but I decided to cosset you. You're a sloppy eater at the best of times."

"You're a fine one to talk." Taking his first mouthful of food, Doyle became aware of the change in consistency and improved flavour. "The cuisine has taken a turn for the better. This is almost edible."

"Just don't wonder what might have gone into the making of it," Bodie advised him, quietly finishing his own, smaller, portion.

Refusing to concern himself with non-essentials, Doyle contentedly finished his meagre meal. "They must have taken pity on us. That was almost a good-sized portion."

"Now I know you must be sickening for something," said Bodie lightly, willing him to drop the subject.

There was a short, suspicious silence.

"That decides it," said Doyle finally. "When that innocent tone enters your voice I know you have some nefarious scheme in mind." A possible explanation for the increased quantity of his meals over the last few weeks occurred to him and he set down his bowl with a precise click before turning in the direction of his cell-mate.

"I'm familiar with the concept of stealing coins from a blind man's cup, but this is ridiculous. You're supposed to take something from the cup, blockhead, not to bankrupt yourself."

Bodie fidgeted where he sat. "I suppose you have some notion of what you're talking about?"

"Oh, so innocent," mocked Doyle. He glared in Bodie's direction. "How long have you been supplementing my meals with your rations?"

"The idea's nonsensical," bluffed Bodie irritably.

"And I have perfect vision," responded Doyle, equally tart. "I might be blind, but don't treat me as if I were half-witted." Without warning he poked Bodie's ribs. By the time he returned his hands to his lap, he was wearing a ferocious scowl.

"Understand one thing here and now, John. From this moment I take over responsibility for dividing the food."

Bodie closed his mouth on his protest, wondering how he could have supposed his ruse could succeed. "You divide the food," he agreed with unusual docility, adding with suspect meekness, "Do you wish to check the rations we have left?"

The severity of Doyle's expression melted and he gave an admiring grin. "You never admit defeat, do you? You cannot seriously imagine that I am going to eat anything else. I don't care to think how much weight you've lost. You must be starved, you great chucklehead." For all his scolding, his voice was gentle, and a little unsteady. "I have never been given so much, and for that I thank you with all my heart. But don't do it again, I beg you. Leave me a little pride."

He lightly shook his companion by the shoulder, resisting the urge to hug the stubborn figure to him. "Now eat," he commanded.

Bodie took a joyless bite of the piece of hardtack he held, unable to deny his hunger, which had left him feeling increasingly lightheaded over the last few days.

"If you don't cease to harp on about it, I'll leave you in little pieces," he threatened. "We'll have to reduce the frequency and duration of our practice sessions. You're too thin." He choked when Doyle gave his ribs a meaning prod.

"Change the subject, Ray," he pleaded.

Doyle sat back with a thoughtful air. "I shall be glad to do so the moment I have your word of honour that you will not do such a foolish thing again."

Refusing to be dictated to, Bodie sat in a mutinous silence.

"Very well," accepted Doyle, unsurprised. "Then I don't eat until I have your word."

There was a small silence before Bodie gave a hefty sigh. "You would do that, wouldn't you," he said bitterly.

"If that's what's required to make you see sense, of course."

Bodie didn't doubt for one minute that Doyle meant it. "I give you my word," he mumbled, ungracious in surrender. "Now can we change the subject?"

"Of course. You were going to tell me about yourself. Where were you born?"

"You're possessed of the most insatiable curiosity of anyone I've ever had the misfortune to meet. I fail to see why my private affairs should interest you."

"Some people would take that for a set-down," said Doyle wisely.

Bodie gave a faint, audible sigh. "You're obviously not one of them."

"I am very thick-skinned," Doyle explained with sunny good-humour. "Where were you born?"

Bodie conceded defeat. "Lancashire. My family were - are for all I know - engaged in the wool trade."

Surprised by this gratuitous supply of information, Doyle looked suitably horrified as he reeled back where he sat. "Trade. How dreadful," he said primly. "I must consider whether I feel able to continue to acknowledge you as an acquaintance." His concentration lapsed, he had no warning of the light clout he received.

"Buffoon," accused Bodie, trusting he hadn't hit Doyle too hard.

"Barbarian," retorted Doyle pathetically as he rubbed his smarting ear in a manner which instantly reassured his companion. "You took an unfair advantage."

Bodie's expression was thoughtful now. "If you can maintain this rate of improvement I shall need all the advantage I can gain."

Sensing his devious companion's purpose, Doyle refused to be diverted from his original line of questioning. "When did you run away from home?"

"When I was fourteen. I joined a ship at Liverpool, jumped ship as soon as we came into port again." Even after all the years that had passed, the memories of that first year still haunted him.

Doyle unerringly caught the tension in his companion's voice. "That bad?"

"Worse," said Bodie tersely. He still bore the physical scars of that first year at sea and never permitted himself to linger on that portion of his life, pushing it deep into the recesses of his mind, with all the other unhappy memories.

A hand clasped his, offering an undemanding comfort. "Tell me," coaxed Doyle in his most persuasive tone.

Bodie never knew if it was the quiet voice or the expression on that worldly face, but something melted the reserve of a lifetime. Almost against his own volition he began to talk, stumbling awkwardly at first before the story came tumbling out. Some of the memories lost a little of their sting as they saw the light of day for the first time.

His flat delivery offered neither excuses nor embellishments, but it was still too vivid. Doyle could see with aching clarity the stubborn, emotionally-starved child in the man opposite him. As Brown crept out from behind his barriers Doyle came to understand where his cell-mate's almost religious insistence on non-involvement had stemmed from as he read between the lines of what he was told. When the other man threatened to fall silent he would prompt him with a question or murmur of acknowledgement.

Hours later the story had been told right up to the present day. Bodie raised his head, exhausted by the memories he had relived, to stare at the other man, suddenly aware that he had stripped himself naked in front of this man. All he could see of Doyle was his bent head, the long, matted curls shielding his face.

"So now you're acquainted with my entire sordid history. I trust you found it edifying," he said savagely, cringing from how much he had revealed. Fearing Doyle's reaction, he sat awaiting rejection.

"Don't!"

"Ray?"

Some unfamiliar note in the husky voice made Bodie lift Doyle's face from concealment. The slighter man tensed but made no further attempt to hide. His cheeks were wet with the silent track of his tears. Some hard core of resistance within Bodie dissolved, melted down by the other man's loving concern. His expression softened as he touched a wet cheek with a gentle fingertip.

"For me?" he said, on the verge of disbelief. "A stranger?"

Doyle jerked away. "I have a weakness for children in trouble," he muttered, his voice husky. Furious with himself for getting so deeply involved, he gave his nose a sharp blow on his shirt tail, wiped away the betraying tears with his hands, and glared belligerently in the other man's direction.

"Any children," he added with asperity. "Even you. Like it or not, we're no longer strangers. You may as well accustom yourself to the notion. What happened to your declared policy of non-involvement?" Too late he realised he should have addressed that question to himself. He and John Brown had come a great distance in a short space of time.

Bodie gave no thought to the defeated anger in Doyle's voice, his eyes on the other man's betraying expression.

"It fell by the wayside some time ago," he admitted, his voice quiet. "I don't know why. I have never..." He gave a shrug indicating his sense of helplessness. "We're involved, I accept that. It's foolish, but I feel as if I have always known you, yet we're strangers."

There was genuine bewilderment in his voice, and hesitancy, as if he couldn't bring himself to accept the extent of their commitment to one another. Gentle hands cupped his bewildered face as Doyle sought to read the truths his troubled features could provide. Fingers brushed the lines of tension on his forehead and between his eyes, skimming down his bearded cheeks before one traced his mouth. Bodie kept his lips firmly compressed, denying his instinctive response.

Doyle's hands slid back to cradle his face between warm palms. Staring sightlessly into the deep blue eyes warily locked with his own, he said matter-of-factly, "Strangers or not, you know me, John Brown. You know me better than any other soul, living or dead."

Bodie's already shaky defences crumbled at the understanding in the quiet voice. To his horror he felt his eyes prickle and blinked in denial of any weakness.

"God help me, I do," he whispered in unwilling acknowledgement. A tear nudged the tip of Doyle's finger as Bodie admitted his growing attachment to this paradoxical being. He gave a shuddering sigh, his head sinking wearily onto the other man's shoulder. "I am not accustomed to - I have never needed anyone before. Never wanted to. But I rather think I need you."

Doyle's arms slid around him in an accepting, comforting embrace, a tender, half-amused, wholly loving smile on his face. "Welcome to the human race, John Brown. We all need somebody, even you.

"Even me," he added softly. "Rest now." Keeping his voice to a low murmur, Doyle gentled Bodie until he had relaxed into a light doze, trusting Doyle enough to sleep while he was still held in that undemanding embrace.



As the harsh winter gave way to spring their physical condition improved. But the change of season reinforced awareness of their captivity and lack of amenities. As the weather grew first mild, then positively benign, it brought other changes that both men were reluctant to admit, even to themselves. The fierce cold had sublimated their sexual energies into the basic need to survive. With the change in the weather came a quickening of the blood and insistent demands of healthy young flesh.

Out of habit they still slept in close quarters, but became uncomfortable at the close proximity they shared as awareness of each other's physical presence increased. The nights were soon spent in a miserable, semi-sleepless silence as they lay with rigid correctness, avoiding the most fleeting of contact.

Plagued by desire, by mutual, unspoken agreement they stopped their practice sessions. When that failed to alleviate the problem they took to sleeping apart. From then on relations between them flourished again.

Gradually the days grew hotter and the cell more fetid as Spring gave way to a sweltering Summer.

---

CORNWALL, MAY 1983

"I think I've gone off the idea of fishing trips for a while," said Bodie, breaking the dismal silence which had fallen since they'd left the Archive section of the local newspaper office. Sliding behind the driving wheel, he leant over to release the catch of the passenger door. "All sodding afternoon to find one lousy obituary."

Feeling less than cheerful himself, Doyle stood by the open door staring at his partner, feeling a fierce envy for a man long dead. When Bodie glanced up, one eyebrow raised in silent query, Doyle bundled himself into the car and pulled up his jacket collar, as if to ward off the cold. Staring through the fly-blown windscreen, he said, "Two. There were two obituaries."

"How could I have forgotten?" Bodie's voice was heavily ironic. "It was a lovely write-up. Drowned in a summer squall while out on a fishing trip. Great way to go, that is." His mouth snapped shut as he drew a steadying breath, disconcerted by his over-reaction. He knew he was identifying too closely with men long dead.

Doyle slid further down in his seat, scowling to disguise his true feelings. "It's probably a better death than we can expect."

"There's no good way to die."

"Maybe not, but there's ways of making each day count. The obituary said they'd been living down here for over thirty years - together. Can you see us staying alive that long?" There was a bitter note in Doyle's voice.

The car took off with a vicious turn of speed, leaving the small town behind. Driving with meticulous skill, but at too fast a pace for the narrow, winding lanes, Bodie made no reply.

Barely saving himself from going through the windscreen Doyle turned angrily. Recognising the lack of expression in his partner's cold face, he closed his mouth, gave a resigned sigh and settled back in the seat, his fingers locked over the hand grip above the door. After a few minutes, during which their speed had only increased, he said, "No, Ray, I can't see us living that long either. Particularly not while I'm driving like a lunatic."

"I know what I'm doing," Bodie insisted irritably, but he slowed the car.

"Sure. Where are we heading for then?"

"I was afraid you'd ask me that," Bodie confessed, having begun to wonder if he had missed the turning. The car was purring along at a sedate thirty-five miles per hour by this time. "We've found out how long they were together," he added into the silence. "Now we know how they died, let's quit while we're ahead. They're dead and buried."

His expression bleak, Doyle didn't look up. "If that's what you want."

Bodie didn't answer.

The car turned left down a concealed turning, following the narrow track. Shrubs and trees arched over them, cutting out the early evening light; foliage brushed the sides of the car at times.

"Why have we come down this track?" Doyle inquired, roused from his abstraction by the loss of light. He could see nothing but vegetation.

The track widened, sweeping them onto a semi-circular gravelled driveway. Avoiding the pot-holes, Bodie drew the car up in front of the rambling house that was spread along the cliff edge. What the building lacked in architectural elegance it made up for in character.

"Very nice," murmured Doyle ironically, eyeing it with disbelief. "What time do they let the bats out around here? They're all this place needs."

Bodie had been looking doubtful himself, but naturally covered the fact in the face of his partner's scorn.

"We want a bed for the night, don't we? And I don't known about you, but I'm starving. Cream teas are all very well but I'm a growing lad. This is a hotel, Ray."

Doyle gave him a look of the deepest suspicion. "You could have fooled me. Are you having one of your funny turns again? This place is a dump."

"Not inside it isn't," Bodie reassured him with supreme confidence.

Doyle contented himself with giving Bodie a speaking look.

"Well one of us had to get organised and I knew there was no point expecting that from you so I asked Lyn where the best hotel was around here. This is the only one out of the list she gave me that we can afford, but apparently it got a good write-up in the Good Food Guide."

Propping himself against the side of the car, Doyle tucked his hands in his jacket pockets and shivered. The wind was coming in off the sea as the tide came in and the tangy air had an edge to it. It had been a depressing afternoon; he had the feeling the evening was going to be worse.

"Since when have you cared about good food?" he asked with disbelief. "All you expect is quantity."

"No need to be like that, mate." Bodie hoisted his overnight bag out of the boot; it was stuffed to over-capacity with the extra clothes they'd bought to tide them over their unexpected holiday. He slung Doyle's to him over the roof of the car.

Doyle caught it on automatic reflex, grunting at the unexpected weight. Padding up the short flight of steps to the imposing front entrance, he paused at the massive door, his expression sombre.

"Do you really want to pack up the idea of doing any more research into what our nineteenth century namesakes got up to?"

Pushing the door open, and ignoring the sense of familiarity which swept over him, Bodie held his partner's gaze. "Yes." He saw the disappointment which swept across Doyle's face and smoothly changed tack, ignoring the instinct which said to back off fast. "Of course, if you felt like trying to talk me round using what you claim is your incredible charm, over a decent meal with a little wine, before you have your wicked way with me..." There was a small flame of arousal in the back of his eyes. "Well, let's just say I'm open to persuasion."

They were alone in the small dark lobby.

"Is that a fact?" mused Doyle, an appreciative grin forming as he gave his companion the once-over. His free hand slid down to cup a firm buttock, stroking it gently. "I'll consider it." He felt the muscle twitch in response to his touch.

As Bodie turned, an admonishing look on his face, Doyle gave him a swift, hard pinch, his expression innocence personified. Barely stifling his yelp of surprise, Bodie went through the swing doors into the reception area faster than he had anticipated.

"You're going to regret that," he promised Doyle in his silkiest tone.

"Maybe, maybe not." Doyle loped after him across the wide lobby to the desk. "It's your fault for having such a gorgeous - "

"Evening," cut in Bodie pleasantly to the young and very attractive receptionist. "We'd like two rooms for a couple of nights, please."

"Rooms?" Doyle fell into a chastened silence under a basilisk glare from his partner.

"You'll have to excuse my companion. He's such a cheapskate."

"I'm sorry, sir, but all the available rooms are already taken," the receptionist told Bodie.

He leant confidingly forward onto the counter, weight taken on his folded arms. "Nothing left at all?"

Doyle barely subdued a groan when he heard the seductive note in his partner's voice and saw Bodie's gaze slide with unabashed appreciation down her neat figure before his attention returned to her face.

"There is one suite that's free," she offered, responding to the sultry look in those wonderful eyes despite herself. "But it's in the old wing that the staff use and we decided not to open it to the public this season. It's in dire need of modernisation. The plumbing," she explained succinctly.

"Ah," said Doyle, trying to sound knowledgeable.

Bodie just smiled, his gaze lingering on her full mouth.

"It has a bathroom en suite, of course, but it's rather old. And as it was originally the master bedroom of an old house I'm afraid there's only a double bed, although it is a big one."

Bodie gave a resigned shrug. "Right now we'd take anything that's going. My partner and I are dog-tired. It's been a long, hard week. The room sounds fine and it won't be the first time we've shared a bed, will it, Ray?"

Obedient to the nudge in his ribs, Doyle shook his head. Leaning forward next to Bodie, he treated the receptionist to his most wistful smile. "We're really knackered," he said with a touch of pathos.

Bodie's side-on look told him that he might have over-played that one.

"Well, if you're sure you don't mind," she capitulated, although she still looked doubtful. "Luckily everything in the room's in order. We only decided not to use it last night. If you need anything, just ring across on the internal phone. But I'm afraid I'll have to charge the usual rates."

"That's OK," said Bodie with cheerful unconcern as he glanced at her scribbled calculations. "He's paying." He jerked a gleeful thumb in Doyle's direction.

Doyle swallowed his protest. "Very reasonable," he agreed on hearing the rates. His smile changed to a threatening grimace at Bodie the moment the receptionist turned away to get the key.

"If you could just sign the register, Mr - "

"Doyle. Ray Doyle."

Scrawling out the required details, he listened doubtfully to her directions. "Tell you what, if we're not down for dinner, send out a search-party because we'll be lost. Don't worry, we'll find our way. Short-staffed, are you?"

She gave a rueful shrug. "And then some. The trouble is, all we can offer is long hours and too little pay. Are you sure you don't want any help with your bags?"

Doyle leant forward confidingly. "I know he's on the puny side but I'll help him up the stairs. He's marvellous for his age, really."

"Oh, I believe you Mr Doyle. You're not wearing so badly yourself." Her professional smile embraced them both before she turned away to get back to work, having quite clearly forgotten their existence.

Bodie dragged Doyle off in the direction of the first flight of stairs. "Come on, sunshine, it's way past your bedtime."

"You owe me sixty-four quid," Doyle informed him with ominous clarity as they strolled along a short passageway to the next flight. "For double that I expect to buy the place."

Bodie gave him a soulful look. "Aren't I worth the price?"

Doyle paused at the top of the stairs to give him an assessing look from cropped crown and back again, lingering on the way down. "I don't know," he said finally, his eyes dark with desire. "I'll let you know."

The stairs too public a venue, he started up the next flight of steps.

Bodie tried to ignore the provocation of the rump swaying in front of him, but was tantalised by the way the soft denim hugged the under cheek of Ray's arse almost as closely as he planned to later. "What do you mean you'll let me know?"

"Well, you are planning to pay me in kind, aren't you?" Doyle gave him a hopeful look.

Bodie gave a lecherous grin. "Try and stop me. Hey, why have we started to go downstairs all of a sudden? I thought you knew the way," he accused.

"So did I," muttered Doyle, disconcerted to realise he had been moving by instinct alone. "Have faith. Come on, round this way."

Flinging open the door he had unlocked, he gave a choke of laughter before he dissolved completely. "I don't believe it," he exclaimed, dropping his bag as he wandered around. "This place is fantastic. Look at it, straight out of Hammer Horror via Fawlty Towers."

The room was immense, dark-panelled, with shadowy corners and alcoves; the general tone was that of heavy, Victorian splendour, although some of the worm-scored pieces of furniture were clearly far older. Logs were stacked in the large fireplace, needing only to have a match set to them. Threatening to dwarf everything else was a vast four-poster bed.

"You could hold an orgy in that bed and still have room to spare," remarked Bodie in awe, having walked around it as far as he was able.

Doyle's arms slid around Bodie's flanks to draw him back against him. "I plan to," he whispered. His tongue tip traced the outline of one neat-set ear.

"What, just the pair of us?"

"We'll be enough," Doyle promised him.

A warm mouth found the nape of Bodie's neck, a moist tongue teasing the tender skin. Skilful fingers slipped around, seeking to unfasten his flies. Bodie caught hold of the wayward hands.

"Not now," he said with as much conviction as he could manage in the circumstances. "I'm hungry."

"So am I," confessed Doyle, his voice muffled against Bodie's throat as he explored further.

"And I want a shower," Bodie added, ignoring the effect Doyle's mouth was having on him.

Pressing himself against the length of the muscular back, Doyle rotated his hips suggestively; his arousal was obvious.

"Before dinner," insisted Bodie, abruptly freeing himself from the other man's embrace.

"What's the matter?" asked Doyle quietly. His expression changed when he saw Bodie's face. He felt somehow excluded.

Bodie shook his head in reassurance and brushed a hand down Doyle's flank before he went to pick up his over-night bag and headed for the bathroom. "Not a thing," he said lightly. "I'm just hungry, that's all."

Watching the door close behind the other man, Doyle stared at the threadbare carpet and wondered why Bodie had felt it necessary to lie to him.

---

PARIS, MAY - JUNE 1789

Doyle lay curled on his side with his back to his cell-mate's unmoving form, silently cursing the demands of his recalcitrant flesh.

"Enforced abstinence has little to recommend it, don't you agree?" Bodie's calm voice drifted into the tense silence.

Doyle tensed, uncertain where this conversation might be leading.

"But I've never resorted to rape in my life. I have no intention of breaking that habit now with you," Bodie added, a trace of humour evident in his cool voice.

"I never supposed that you would," said Doyle, startled into speech. This was one hell of a personal conversation for a man who avoided them with dedication.

"Equally I have no intention of being raped," continued Bodie.

Doyle sat bolt upright, mouth parted as he faced the spot where Brown lay. "What - ?"

"You have a right hand, make use of it," snapped Bodie with a sudden, rough impatience. "Another night such as this and we'll both turn into gibbering lunatics. Don't be so damn missish."

"Nonsense," protested Doyle weakly, too stunned by the unexpected turn the conversation had taken to think of a more convincing rebuttal.

Bodie gave him a look of disbelief. "Have it your own way, but forgive me if I seek some privacy." Rising to his feet, he moved to the far corner, valiantly trying not to notice the increased stench from the privy.

Desperately embarrassed but thankful that his inconvenient erection had subsided, Doyle tried to close his ears to any sound his companion might make.

There was complete silence, to the point where he could hear his own stomach rumble.

Struck by the ludicrous situation they found themselves in, he began to laugh, quietly at first until the momentum grew and he was giggling uncontrollably, curled in an aching ball. Finally rolling onto his back, Doyle gave a prolonged, sensuous stretch of sheer well-being, scratched briefly, then craned his head in the direction he knew Brown to be occupying.

"I believed, mistakenly it would seem, that it was a problem I was successfully concealing," he said finally.

"No," said Bodie with restraint. "Unless it's usual for you to behave like a bear with a sore... head?"

"Are you plagued by dreams, too?"

"Of course, but I shall share my fantasies only when I have been regaled with yours. I'm beginning to believe I have forgotten what it is like to copulate," he added wistfully.

Doyle propped himself against the wall. "I knew you lacked imagination, but I didn't realise you suffered from a failing memory too. The stench down that end must be appalling. Come back here. I'll try to contain my ungovernable lust for your undeniably desirable body."

"It isn't your reaction which concerns me," Bodie retorted, making a joke from the truth.

The close proximity of the other man took Doyle by surprise; he had not heard Brown move.

Bodie studied Doyle through heavy-lidded eyes. He would have great pleasure in assuaging his dragging physical need for relief with Ray Doyle. That wiry, lithe body and exotic face had come to seem very attractive over the months but he would do nothing until he was certain that such a course of action would not adversely affect their friendship. He wouldn't risk that. As he was unsure of Doyle's reaction, he chose to sleep alone.

"I have never bedded a man," Doyle told him, his face thoughtful, as if he was considering the idea.

Bodie's cock twitched. "It has its merits," he informed Doyle, answering the unasked question.

"I'm sure it does. I can also foresee a number of problems." Doyle moved over to make room for Bodie to lie beside him.

"So can I," Bodie admitted. "That's why I choose to sleep alone."

A brief smile lit Doyle's face at the arrogance which prevented Brown from doubting his powers of persuasion. "I would be more flattered were it not for the fact your choice is somewhat restricted at present," he said dryly.

There was a long pause.

"I doubt my choice would be much different," said Bodie with deliberation.

Doyle caught hold of Brown's arm, knowing the other man rarely spoke without first considering what he said. "Then perhaps I should reconsider. There are few problems that are not capable of solution."

Resolute, Bodie looked away from the unconscious invitation of the well-defined mouth, his senses stroked by that velvet-soft voice.

"Perhaps you should," he agreed, keeping his voice light only with great effort. "Be sure to let me know what you decide. But be equally sure you know what you're agreeing to."

"Are you lecturing me?" demanded Doyle with amused disbelief.

"Yes, I am. You're too soft-hearted for your own well-being. Be certain that when you decide, your decision accords only with your own wishes."

"Oh, I will," Doyle promised him softly, a small, amused smile quirking his mouth. "I'm already certain you'll be the first to learn of my decision."

"Good," said Bodie, content for the moment with that. It was more than he had hoped for.

He stiffened in surprise when Doyle drew closer to relax against him, his head resting comfortably in the crook of his shoulder. Wriggling until he was completely comfortable, Doyle gave a contented sigh.

"There must be others afflicted with your overwhelming conceit," he informed Bodie in sleepy amusement. "I simply haven't had the misfortune to meet them."

"Go to sleep and cease babbling," instructed Bodie, a wide smile on his face as he slung a protective arm around the other man.

The damp, even breath against his neck soon told him that, for once, Doyle had obeyed him. His own position was not particularly comfortable, but Bodie elected to remain where he was because he was reluctant to disturb the sleeping man.



"Kitty has a superb chef," said Doyle dreamily, ignoring the bowl of gruel on the floor next to him. The intense heat had stolen his appetite. "He has a way with fish that - "

"Say one more word," threatened Bodie as he worked through his own portion while trying not to gag at the foul taste, which was even worse than its smell. "If I have to support one more menu I shall probably throw a fit of the vapours."

"Really? Could you?" Doyle asked with interest.

"I don't propose to put it to the test. Eat up," instructed Bodie briskly. "You can continue working to improve my grasp of the French language afterwards. I must be making some progress after all this time."

"Not that you w