CORNWALL, MAY 1983

His top plastered to him, his hair damp with sweat, Doyle elbowed the bedroom door open and almost lost the contents of the laden tray in the process. "Rise and shine," he called cheerfully, closing the door by the simple expedient of leaning against it. "You'll enjoy this. You'd better. I damn nearly blew us up making it. The kitchen's on the decrepit side. Bodie, come on, mate. This weighs a ton."

Glancing up, he saw the empty bed and rumpled bedclothes. Setting down the tray, Doyle checked the bathroom with a curious dread. He already knew it would be empty. Then he just stood for a moment; the silence of the room was deafening.

He automatically checked their few belongings, noting that some were missing but too dazed to notice which. His hands shaking slightly, he opened the vast wardrobe. Disbelief stopped him in his tracks. Bodie's leather jacket still hung there in lonely splendour, his holster and Magnum half-hidden beneath it. His weekend bag sat on the floor of the wardrobe, still neatly packed. Not daring to hope, Doyle checked the pockets of the jacket. Bodie's car keys, ID and wallet were all there. The lining smelt faintly of aftershave and Bodie.

Puzzled by this time, Doyle closed the wardrobe and relaxed back against it, feeling ashamed that he had found it so easy to believe Bodie would just walk out on him. Bodie was the one who was more willing to try...

Bodie must have gone to meet him, which was strange, because he hated early morning runs as a rule, claiming he'd been forced to go on too many in the army to do it when he was on holiday. Unlacing his running shoes, Doyle kicked them under a chair before he poured himself a cup of the cooling tea. If he went out again, the odds were that he'd miss Bodie.

Sprawling on the rumpled bed, he hitched up the pillows and made himself comfortable while he drank his tea. Enjoying the luxury of an unhurried morning, he idly listened to the sounds of life increasing; the smell of cooking bacon drifted through the open window.

After a leisurely bath and shave, he went to find clean clothes. He emptied the contents of his weekend bag onto the floor when his clean briefs and socks failed to materialise. If Bodie had nicked his because he'd forgotten to pack any again he would kill him. Hauling out his partner's bag, he found Bodie's and made his selection. It took a while to find his jeans where they had fallen to the floor behind the easy chair. His head halfway through his olive-green tee shirt, he realised that the silk shirt he had worn the day before was missing. Bodie, fastidious as a cat, would never voluntarily wear the same shirt two days running - let alone someone else's shirt. It was then that Doyle noticed that his jacket was missing.

What the hell was Bodie playing at? Come to that, where was he? It was half-past nine. He should have been back ages ago. Doyle studied the room through newly alert eyes. Uneasy, he remembered the state it had been in on his return. There was no way Bodie would have got up to go after him. He'd looked knackered. If it had been a call on CI5 business he would have waited, or found him, fast. Any other reason and he would have left a note or a message.

There was definitely no note. Doyle went to the internal phone and checked with the receptionist who had just taken over from the night porter Doyle had seen dozing when he returned to the hotel just before seven. Nope, no message. So where was he? With no money or car he wasn't going to get very far - unless he'd been taken. There was no sign of a struggle, but then there was no sign of Bodie either.

Anyone who could take Bodie that easily was either very good - Doyle's eyes came to rest on his own holster, the Smith and Wesson nestling inside the coiled strap - or Bodie realised he wasn't armed and knew he could be coming back at any time.

The certainty grew in him that Bodie must have been abducted. Not wasting his time and energy wondering by whom and for what purpose, Doyle pulled on his holster and grabbed Bodie's leather jacket from the wardrobe before he raced off to find an outside telephone line so he could contact the police.

---

LONDON, AUGUST 1789

"So now we are alone, what is it you wished to tell me?" asked Cowley briskly. He stared at the man who had been his most valuable agent, wondering if he would ever be able to make use of Doyle's formidable skills again.

"Someone within our organisation is supplying information to the French."

This was the first time Doyle had been alone with Cowley in the three days since he had been brought to the bustling offices just off Horse Guards Parade. Doyle still had not recovered from the bout of fever which had laid him low on the journey back to England. His debriefing about his time in France had to be paced to match the limits of his strength. Collecting his thoughts, he offered all the shreds of evidence which led him to suspect a traitor in their midst. When he eventually fell silent Cowley's expression was thoughtful as he looked at the younger man's exhausted face.

"Aye, well, that was all very edifying. I'll take what you told me into consideration when forming my appraisal of the situation," he said.

Doyle looked up sharply. "I should advise you to do more than that, sir."

"You wouldn't be attempting to teach me my own job by any chance?" Cowley inquired with suspect affability.

A faint smile lit Doyle's tired face. "I would not dare." After a few moments, he added, "I should like, if I may, to see - To be given the opportunity of being reunited with my family."

"Of course. I have a post-chaise waiting to convey you there. You'll have a great deal to catch up on. But make the most of your leave. I have plenty of work here to keep you busy on your return."

"But I'm blind," said Doyle blankly. It was the first time he had voluntarily referred to his lack of sight.

Cowley gave a smile of the grimmest satisfaction; it was a start. "I had noticed, lad. But you are not, I think, half-witted. There's a matter I want to discuss with you on your return to duty. But that's for the future. Let's get you home. You must be weary of this place."

It took no great strength of imagination to understand what the journey back to England and the bustle of London must have been like to a man who had been imprisoned for over nine months. There was a growing hesitancy in Doyle's manner that Cowley had no intention of permitting to develop. There were going to be some difficult times ahead as Doyle adjusted to his lack of vision in a once familiar world.

Picking up his silver-topped cane, Cowley limped around his desk. "Come, lad. Let's get you home," he repeated gruffly.



Sitting upright in his corner of the jolting coach, Cowley spared his companion an assessing glance. Slouched in the opposite corner, his hands dug into the pockets of his skin-tight breeches as he swayed with the movement of the coach, Doyle's expression was marred by a ferocious scowl. He had fallen silent as their journey out of London continued, his thoughts clearly unhappy. Cowley did not make the mistake of believing Doyle to be anticipating his reunion with his family. The brooding figure was impossible to ignore.

"Cheer up, man," he said with the brisk irritation of the healthy with the sick, "the worst is behind you." Doyle's head swung around in his direction, the icy gaze unerringly placing him.

"No doubt," agreed Doyle without colour. "My resignation will be on your desk the moment I find someone able to pen it for me."

"You're being nonsensical," snapped Cowley. He had to raise his voice over the noise outside. A horn blared out, followed by shouts from their coachman and guard. "What the blazes - ?"

There was a jarring crash and the world turned upside down. Shaken, Cowley heard the shrill scream of terrified horses. The post-chaise lay drunkenly in a ditch into which it had been forced. Righting himself and dabbing at his split lip, he picked himself up and lowered the window to thrust his head out.

"You, Turner, isn't it? What the devil do you mean by this? Are you foxed, man? Come, help me out. Don't just stand there gawping."

"I am not foxed, sir," refuted Turner nervously, wishing he had denied all knowledge of being able to handle a team of four. But it had been an opportunity to bring himself to Cowley's attention. "We were forced off the road by some young bucks out to make sport." He pointed to the phaeton bowling down the highway.

"I'll take a description of them later," promised Cowley with a grim displeasure. "The horses?"

"Frightened, no more. Jem is tending to them now. We'll soon have the coach to rights, sir. What of Mister Doyle?"

"What indeed?" Cowley turned back to the body of the coach. "Ray, come on, man. Let's be having you."

Doyle, who lay sprawled on the floor, did not move. His face was pale and there was an already darkening bruise visible over one eye.

"Damn," said Cowley savagely. "Turner, don't just stand there, man. Help me to get him out. And carefully."

Within a short space of time they had Doyle lying on the grassy bank, his head pillowed on Turner's folded coat, and his neckcloth loosened. He seemed to have sustained no other injury except the blow to his head.

"Shall I send Jem for a physician, sir?" asked Turner anxiously.

Cowley was watching the unconscious face intently, noting the signs of a return to awareness. "We'll see how he does first."

One hand going to his skull, which felt as if it had been cracked, Doyle blinked dazedly, wincing as he opened his eyes and was assaulted by the light. Unsurprised, he stared up into Cowley's face.

"There's blood on your lip," Doyle told him matter-of-factly. He sat up, then stood, with caution.

Cowley was too taken aback to think of stopping him. "I cut my lip when the coach overturned."

Turner made to speak and Cowley bore down hard on his foot.

Doyle turned to the younger man, who was scarlet as he choked on a grunt of pain. There was a frown between Doyle's narrowed eyes. "Simon Turner, is it not? Were you injured?"

"You were our first casualty," Cowley broke in to tell him. He glared Turner into silence. "You have a fine lump above your eye. How do you feel otherwise?" he added, watching Doyle intently.

"I'm well enough, although the sunlight is enough to - " Doyle's voice trailed away. His eyes huge in a pale face, he stared at Cowley.

"I can see!" he choked huskily, his disbelief obvious. He went terribly still, as if he was afraid to move.

"So you can," agreed Cowley, at his most prosaic. "Come and sit down, laddie. Rest a while. Don't overtax your strength."

Turner wondered at the older man's softened expression.

"I can see!" Doyle slowly raised his hand and stared at it as if he had never seen it before. Blinking rapidly, he turned full circle, absorbing the colours and forms of the August countryside, the wrecked carriage, and the faces staring at him with various degrees of concern. His own expression slowly changed.

"I can see!"

A blazing smile of sheer triumph lit his face. Motionless, energy seemed to pour from him. Then he leapt forward to take Cowley in a fierce bear-hug, whirling him around in a joyous dance before he released him, self-consciously straightened the older man's sober waistcoat and stepped back a pace.

"My apologies, sir," he said with abrupt formality, but an irrepressible smile broke through, almost seducing Cowley into responding.

"Aye, well, I doubt that you'll be planning to make a habit of it," he said dryly. Clapping Doyle on the shoulder, his smile was warm with affection. "Congratulations, lad. What was that you were saying about resigning?"

Still on the edge of shock, Doyle stared at him, a grin spreading across his face. "You devious, double-dealing old bastard," he breathed in a tone pitched for the older man's ears alone. "Do you never let up?"

Cowley subjected him to a severe glare. "Not when there are matters requiring your attention. Two weeks' leave should suffice, I think. Turner, give us ten minutes. We'll stroll on ahead."

Adjusting his stride to the older man's slower pace, Doyle walked in silence as he absorbed the glorious fact that he could see again. He found that he had to avoid the sun, which made his eyes water at present, but otherwise his vision was perfect. Cowley, with more sensitivity than many of his men would have given him credit for, did not interrupt his reverie.

"I shall require more than two weeks' leave," Doyle announced finally, in a tone Cowley had not dared to hope he might hear yet awhile. "I shall need a month beside."

"For what purpose?" Cowley demanded.

"I have a journey to make."

Cowley stopped walking. "If you are trying to provoke me you're succeeding admirably. A journey to where?"

"Lancashire. Do we have any contacts there?"

"Lancashire?" repeated Cowley blankly. "What the devil takes you to Lancashire?"

"There's someone I mean to find." Doyle's expression was sombre, his brows drawn together as he frowned down at the roadway.

Cowley knew the younger man had enjoyed precious few opportunities of meeting anyone. Only one name had recurred. "John Brown, your former cell-mate?" he hazarded.

Already making plans, Doyle gave an absent nod.

Giving him a look of deep regret, Cowley sighed. He hated what he must tell Doyle, now of all times.

"John Brown is dead," he said quietly. "Murphy found his body in the Bastille. He had been dead for some hours. Shot. Murphy could not bring himself to tell you when you were already so ill with the fever."

Doyle flinched as if he had just received a mortal wound.

He didn't doubt the truth of what Cowley had told him, or attempt to question him in any way. His too-controlled face was devoid of colour or expression.

"I'm sorry, lad. Fortunes of war," offered Cowley awkwardly.

Doyle stared, his eyes blank, at the empty road ahead of him. "Would you have any objection to my walking on alone for a while, sir?" he said, too numb to be surprised at how normal his voice sounded.

"Of course not, lad. We'll pick you up."

When Cowley returned to the coach he turned to see that Doyle was still standing where he had left him, his head bowed. Turning from the sight, his expression grim, Cowley deliberately slowed the work of repairing the traces to give the younger man time to come to terms with his loss in private.

---

LONDON/CORNWALL, MAY 1983

Becoming increasingly enraged at the contents and style of the poorly written report he was reading, Cowley avoided tipping over his cup as he made a grab for the telephone receiver. "What?" he demanded with impatience, still scanning the printed page.

"Doyle, sir. Bodie's been taken."

"Taken where?" asked Cowley absently. Having granted his two top operatives some leave, he had dismissed them from his thoughts. With only half his attention given to the conversation he had not noticed the lack of colour in Doyle's quiet voice.

"Unknown. He was abducted while I was out running this morning. The hotel is old, the night porter was dozing. I contacted the local police at 9.35. Their investigations have revealed that Bodie may have been taken as early as six o'clock. The getaway car could be an electric blue Granada."

Doyle swiftly itemised the actions he had taken and the scanty information they had gathered. "They're still trying to trace the Granada," he added.

The report forgotten, Cowley had already called through to his secretary and passed her a scribbled note.

"So why did they take Bodie?"

"I think in mistake for me. The porter reported getting a phone call late last night asking if I had checked in yet. The caller was male - London accent is the best I could get. Though down here anyone from the south-east would probably qualify. The room was booked in my name, Bodie forgot to sign the register, so as far as anyone but the receptionist knew I was alone. Besides, Bodie left wearing my shirt and jacket. I think he was trying to tell me what had happened the only way he could."

"So you think someone wants you that badly. Careless of them not to have a description of you. Sloppy. I can't believe it will take long to find them. Is this a CI5 matter or a left-over from your time in the Met?"

"Unknown. My guess would be the Met. I need some computer time."

"I thought you might," said Cowley dryly, knowing a tie-in was already taking place with the computer at Scotland Yard. Establishing who out of Doyle's arrests over the years, both in the police force and CI5, would have sufficient motive, means and opportunity wasn't going to be easy. "I'm glad to hear you're actually using the brains you were given. Are you still at the hotel?"

"Yes, because - "

"Then get yourself back here on the double. You're going to have a lot of work to do." The door opened and Cowley waved Connors and Rice onto chairs opposite him.

"I'm staying here," said Doyle in flat contradiction. "I'm not risking the fact they might not know how else to trace me. They're going to discover they've got the wrong man. There's a good chance they'll try to bargain with Bodie if they want me badly enough. That'll give us a lead to him."

"I'll have no bargaining with kidnappers," snapped Cowley immediately.

"You won't have to, it's me they want."

"4.5, let's get one thing quite clear. While you work for CI5 you work under orders or not at all. You call me before you take any action." There was no response. "Doyle, did you hear me?"

"Clearly, but we both know I'm staying here. You'll let me know what names the computer comes up with?" There was a hard, abrasive quality to Doyle's voice that warned Cowley not to push too hard.

"Of course. They're working on it already." Cowley was checking through duty rosters and locations. "You'll have a back-up team with you within an hour or so. I'm sending a helicopter down to you. You'll need it in the event you get a call. As soon as you do, I want to hear about it. Clear? Bodie's well able to take care of himself."

Cowley recognised the inanity of what he had said too late. Doyle's response, given the strain he was under, was predictable. Cowley heard him out in a forbearing silence. Connors and Rice studiously looked out of the window; they could hear Doyle's voice from where they sat.

"Thank you, 4.5. I'll take your suggestions under advisement. Meanwhile, I suggest you get a grip on your temper," Cowley said icily when Doyle had to pause for breath. He spoke to an empty line; Doyle had cut the connection.

Deciding that he would have a word or two to say to him when next they met, Cowley continued to set the investigative wheels in motion.

---

CORNWALL, MAY 1799

Barging through a side door, mindful of the unconscious figure in his arms, Bodie called out, "Jedediah, where the blazes are you, man? Can't we have some light about the place. Damn it. Jedediah!"

He stumbled into the hallway, inadvertently tripping over a low footstool. Cursing, he just avoided stumbling over the dog, who was still padding at his heels.

Jedediah, who had been on the point of retiring for the night, glared down from the top of the stairs, his expression growing more sour as he saw the unconscious man in Bodie's arms. Eyeing the body with open disfavour, he dragged on his outdoor coat over his nightshirt.

"There you are. Are there any bedrooms fit for use?" Bodie asked more moderately as he mounted the stairs.

"You know full well there ain't. Bertha's been a beggin' of you to get her more staff. Now you know why. Who's that?"

"It will have to be my chamber then," said Bodie with a resigned sigh. "He's a survivor from the wreck. Until I find out more about him, you'll take pains not to mention his presence outside the house. Clear?"

"Clear," acknowledged Jedediah, his eyes fixed on the chains on the stranger's thin wrists. "Nice line in guests you have."

"Jedediah...." warned Bodie. He was in no mood for a lecture.

"All right, all right. Just so long as you know what you're doing. No one else ever does, that's for sure."

Picking up a branch of candles, Jedediah glared at the younger man from beneath his grizzled eyebrows but forbore to say anything else. He hadn't seen this light in the Master's eyes since he was seven years old and he and Bertha had given the boy one of Elsa's pups. He'd just stood there, his eyes glowing, almost afraid to touch the wriggling bundle. That inner glow had remained with him for a full month, until his father had returned home and ordered one of the stable lads to drown the pup.

There was some quality in the unconscious face lolling over the back of Bodie's arm that made Jedediah fear for his master's peace of mind. Whatever he might choose to pretend, Master William was too involved with this stranger already. Dangerously so. Collecting his scattered wits, Jedediah realised they had arrived in the main bedchamber. He looked up as Bodie, breathing heavily now from his climb, gave him an impatient nudge with his shoulder.

"Well, pull back the curtains. Or were you proposing to stand there gawping all night?" He carefully deposited Doyle on the bed, noting the bloodstained shirt with grim eyes.

"I'll want hot water, linen and some brandy," he announced without turning.

"And a physician by the look of him," said Jedediah pessimistically, making no effort to move. "He's in poor shape and he's soaking wet besides. It didn't occur to you to strip him off before you placed him on the bed?"

"No. No, it didn't," Bodie admitted vaguely, his attention elsewhere. "You'd best add fresh bed-linen to the list."

Jedediah glared at the younger man's back.

Bodie's attention remained fixed on the unconscious figure as he tried to make sense of his turbulent emotions. He both feared and yearned for the moment when Ray would recover consciousness. Hating the other man, he was drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

He started when a hand rested on his arm.

"And yourself, are you all right?"

Turning in surprise, a brief smile of great sweetness lit Bodie's face when he saw the ill-concealed affection in Jedediah's eyes.

"Never better," he assured the older man. He gestured to Doyle. "Will Bertha tend to him, do you think?"

Jedediah paused in the doorway and gave a wry grin. "You know Bertha. She'll revel in having an invalid under her charge. You'd best be getting him out of those wet rags afore he bleeds all over the spread, while I go and rouse her. She's been sleeping this hour and more."

Bodie nodded his thanks and re-approached the bedside. He studied Doyle's face, scarcely able to believe that Ray was alive. But the proof was indubitably lying here in front of him. It was too distinctive a face to be easily banished from the mind's eye. He had changed so little. The years had obviously been kind to him.

Then he noticed the lines around the eyes and well-defined mouth, the hint of unhappiness in the curve of the lips. In repose Doyle's face had an austere, passionless quality, the bone structure reminding him of religious effigies from the Middle Ages. He smiled at his flight of fancy. Unless Ray had undergone a radical change of character that comparison was totally inaccurate. He could almost hear Doyle's wicked chuckle at the notion. His grin faded as he saw the touches of grey mingled with the chestnut hair at the sideburns. There were events in Ray's life for those signs of hurt that he would never know of. Ten years...

When Jedediah returned, trailing behind the comfortable bulk of his wife, Bodie was still staring at the waterlogged figure on the bed.

Scolding under her breath, Bertha took efficient and kindly charge of proceedings. Within a short space of time Doyle had been stripped of his wet clothing; the extensive wounds on his back and shoulders had been cleansed, his bruises anointed and his cracked ribs securely taped against further injury. At no point during her ministrations did he fully recover consciousness, although he had tried to twist away as she washed his gashed back with vinegar and water.

It had taken Bodie only a few minutes to open the locks of the manacles around Doyle's wrists, using a slender metal probe. Wordlessly he handed them to Jedediah to dispose of, his face a careful blank, denying the memories. Bertha seemed disposed to fuss over her charge. Bodie firmly indicated that he would sit up with the injured man and tend to him if necessary until he should regain consciousness.

After one glance at his set expression and the curiously vulnerable light in his eyes, Bertha made no further demur. Bundling her husband out of the room, she left the two men alone in the flickering firelight.



Bodie's eyes snapped open when he heard the unintelligible moan. Doyle had yet to regain consciousness but his feverish tossing had grown more violent, his face twisting with the pain such movements cost him. His skin was flaming to the touch, and drawn too tight across the bones of a face devoid of colour except for the hectic splashes across the cheekbones.

His reservations gone now he could act to some purpose, Bodie set about trying to break the fever. Wrapping damp sheets around the heated body, he sponged Doyle down, with a care for his wounds. The heat radiating from him quickly dried the sheets, whose confining folds Doyle obviously found uncomfortable. Eventually Bodie let him rest, for each sound of pain the unconscious man made tore through him.

The temperature in the room rose. Item by item Bodie peeled off his coat and waistcoat, unfastening his neckcloth and folding back the sleeves of his shirt. He became almost as damp as the man he was tending. He tried to persuade the semi-conscious figure to drink, alternately bullying and coaxing in an effort to get fluids inside him.

His calm, firm voice finally penetrated Doyle's fever-fogged brain. Blinking in the flickering half-light, he stared up into the pale face of the man at his side.

"Where am I?" he demanded huskily, staring with puzzled eyes at his unfamiliar surroundings.

Bodie told him, caution making his voice brisk and impersonal as he awaited the moment when Doyle would recognise it.

"... the storm must have driven your ship onto the rocks at the mouth of the cove," he concluded.

Doyle gave a wry smile. "Fortunately for me, as it happens. I was about to be cast, like bread, upon the waters." He couldn't control his bouts of shivering. He plucked at the clammy sheets which were wrapped around him and looked up in silent question.

"You have a high fever. They may be uncomfortable but they will help to reduce your temperature," explained Bodie.

Concerned, he forced himself to look directly at the conscious figure for the first time. The colour drained from his face as he met Doyle's eyes; green, and glittering with fever, they studied his every move with unconcealed interest.

"You can see," Bodie exclaimed, panic flooding through him. He took an unconscious step backwards.

Doyle's eyebrows arched up beneath his hairline before he winced and put a cautious hand to the swelling lump at his temple. "It's not an uncommon practice," he told his host, a half-question behind the levity.

Bodie stared at him with numb disbelief, a slow, cold pain spreading through him when he realised there was no recognition in Doyle's eyes, only a growing puzzlement.

"I feared the blow you'd sustained might have impaired your vision," he said brusquely.

His explanation didn't appear to convince Doyle, but he was obviously too well-mannered to comment further.

Bodie forgot his shock and dragging misery when, opening his mouth to say something, Doyle began to cough and immediately convulsed as the harsh movements jarred his cracked ribs. Having started to cough he could not seem to stop and the pain intensified in a fiery spiral.

"My thanks," he croaked weakly when at last the fit was over. He gave an unconscious sigh when strong, cool hands settled him comfortably back against the support of the pillows.

"It's of no consequence," Bodie told him shortly. He was appalled at the sound of the harsh, racking cough and the struggle to regain breath afterwards. Remembering Bertha's instructions, he handed Doyle a glass of fruit juice.

Doyle gave it an unenthusiastic look and made no move to take it from him.

"You must drink fluids," Bodie told him firmly. "This will ease your throat and help to flush the fever from your system."

He seemed an unlikely source of such homely advice, thought Doyle with a flash of amusement. The stabbing pain in his side and chest easing, he obediently took the proffered glass. Eyeing his host from over the rim with speculative interest, he took a cautious sip. It was unexpectedly pleasant, if reminiscent of his nursery days.

"I am being a great trial to you," he said apologetically. "May I know who I am to thank? My name is Doyle. Raymond Doyle of London."

"Bodie," he said, remembering another time and another introduction.

A smile twitched the corners of Doyle's mouth. "Mister Bodie, no more?"

Ray's curiosity had always been his besetting sin, Bodie remembered absently, unaware that he had returned the other man's smile.

"William Andrew Philip. I prefer to use Bodie only."

"Short and not too sweet. It suits you," murmured Doyle, his eyelids dropping to a close.

Suddenly realising what he had let slip in his drowsy state his eyes snapped open again. He looked ruefully up at Bodie with a heightened colour. "My apologies, that was not intended as a slight."

"I know." Bodie's next smile took the years from his face and made Doyle reassess the other man's age. "Rest easy. I rarely take offence where none was intended." Bodie turned away to place Doyle's empty glass onto the bedside table, made uneasy by the searching gaze that had lost none of its power to disconcert.

"Forgive me, but have we met somewhere before?" asked Doyle hesitantly. With some effort he pulled himself up the bed, tantalised by the strange sense of familiarity he was experiencing with his host. He bit his lip when his cracked ribs protested.

Bodie tensed and took care that his face should remain in the shadows. "No." The lie was instinctive, self-preservation coming to the fore. He didn't trust his control enough to respond with the obvious question.

To be so close yet so distant was unbearable. His hand clenched with unconscious power around the glass he still held; it shattered. Acting as if nothing untoward had occurred, he collected up the pieces and deposited them in the fire, ignoring the smart of his gashed palm.

"That should be attended to," Doyle advised him, watching the other man's every move. He was aware of the tension in the room but could not begin to guess at its cause.

Bodie whirled around to glare down at him from his advantage of height. "You should be asleep."

"Doubtless, but at the risk of sounding ungrateful, my ribs will not permit me sufficient ease." Doyle offered a placating smile.

With a look of intense displeasure Bodie approached the bedside table and took up a small bottle. "I have laudanum here. You should have spoken earlier." He poured a few drops into a measure.

Doyle's hand shot out, restraining him with an unexpected power. "No," he exclaimed with some force.

Bodie's eyebrows snapped together. He stared haughtily down, first at the hand gripping his wrist, then into Doyle's eyes. His rising anger blinded him to the fleeting panic which crossed Doyle's face, beneath the determination.

"I never take laudanum," he stated in a flat voice that brooked no contradiction. He offered no other explanation for his behaviour.

"You will on this occasion," Bodie told him, infuriated by the other man's high-handed attitude.

Doyle's gaze did not waver as he searched Bodie's indifferent face. "You could force me to take the dose, of course," he conceded, his voice cold. "But if you truly seek my recovery I should not advise you to try. The attempt will injure us both."

"Damn it to hell, who do you imagine you are talking to?" demanded Bodie, his temper slipping from constraint. He held out the measure, determined to help the other man whether he wanted that help or not.

His face taut with repudiation, Doyle swung his head away, his lips compressed. Bodie grasped his chin and forcibly turned him back to the waiting measure. His eyes narrowed to slits of fury, Doyle knocked the measure from his hand, spilling the contents down Bodie's shirt front. The other man's instinctive retaliatory blow was blocked with a force that jarred bone.

Forgetting Doyle's injuries, and indeed who he was fighting and why, Bodie grimly set about mastering the other man. As Doyle twisted to evade his grip, hampered by the sheets wrapped around him, a sharp cry of agony escaped him. Clutching his side, his knees jack-knifed up into his chest; he curled on his uninjured side in a fruitless attempt to minimise the pain. Then his breath caught and he began to cough again.

His eyes dark with remorse, Bodie held him as the tearing spasms gained momentum, to the point where Doyle began to retch, dry heaves convulsing him. His face scarlet, his lashes damp and spiky, he lay spent over Bodie's supporting arm, trembling with pain and his breath coming in ragged gasps. The wounds in his back had re-opened but Bodie was more concerned that a cracked rib might have penetrated a lung. His scanty medical knowledge was sufficient to make him check Doyle's lips; while colourless, there was no sign of blood on them. Not knowing what other symptoms to look out for, Bodie could only trust that all was well and offer what comfort he could to the exhausted, pain-racked man in his arms.

Drawing closer, he offered his own body warmth until the pain should have eased enough for Doyle to settle back under dry covers. Dragging away the damp sheeting, he pulled the warmth of the feather spread as far over Doyle as he could while he was still supporting him. With that close proximity he discovered he had forgotten nothing about Ray Doyle; he remembered the sensation of the skin under his fingertips, the contours of the spine and curve of the throat. Memories flooding him, Bodie closed his eyes, seeking to regain his shaky composure. Opening them moments later, he stared with grim concentration at the panelling behind the headboard and tried to ignore the soft tangle of hair tickling his chin.

Aware only of the palpable tension between them, Doyle forced himself to raise his bowed head as he stared at his host's half-averted face. Misinterpreting Bodie's tension for anger, he resisted the temptation simply to close his eyes and feign unconsciousness. In truth, it would not have been difficult. Doyle knew further resistance to be beyond him, and knew also that he must offer some explanation for his behaviour. Bodie had meant well in offering him the opiate; his over-reaction must seem both inexplicable and unforgivable.

"You deserve some explanation for my behaviour," he said in an attenuated whisper, pain spearing him with each breath. "I'm an artist. My life hasn't always followed the conventional paths. There was a period when I took vast quantities of laudanum in its unrefined state. It came to the point where I could no longer function without it."

He didn't choose to add that his addiction had been forced on him, nor to make any mention of the black period when he had fought to regain his independence from the drug, hiding himself away from both friends and family while he did so. The mission had not been one of his outstanding successes; the memory of it could still make him sweat.

Square-tipped, capable hands ran lightly and up down his sides in reassurance. "You have no need to explain further. I have met people so addicted," said Bodie tightly. He wondered with horror at the straits which could have brought Ray to seek such a desperate escape from reality.

Seeing Doyle's eyes darken and his gaze drop, assuming his revulsion at the disclosure, Bodie could barely resist the temptation to hug the other man to him.

"Until now I have never met anyone who succeeded in evading its clutches," he added, his hands gentling the tensed frame.

"You believe me?" Doyle's expression betrayed his surprise at the other man's unquestioning acceptance of his word.

"I can do little else. You fight too well to be disbelieved. I'm a poor host to abuse a guest so. As you have witnessed, my temper is not mild when thwarted. The laudanum will be removed, have no fear. I will see that Bertha knows not to offer it. She has other herbs that may relieve your discomfort - she's wise in the ways of the country. There will be no potions to bring you harm, my word on it."

"I did not hurt you in the struggle?" Doyle checked anxiously.

Bodie's lips twitched. "Hardly. Though I would not care to meet you on equal terms. Do you think you could rest now?" He swallowed hard when Doyle's head drooped to rest trustingly in the hollow of his shoulder. The other man's breath was warm and damp against the skin of his throat.

Totally relaxed against the powerful body that held him with such gentleness, Doyle gave an acquiescent nod. He felt warm for the first time that night, and curiously reluctant to move from his comfortable resting place. But it was clear to him from the tension in the other man's body that Bodie was anxious to withdraw from the contact they shared. With some reluctance Doyle drew away and moments later lay back against the support of the pillows, his set face denying his discomfort. Bodie did not do him the courtesy of pretending to believe in his appearance of ease.

"I would offer you brandy but I think it would be unwise. You have a high fever and Bertha believes alcohol mixed with a fever impedes recovery. Shall I wake her to see if there is anything we can offer you?"

"Perhaps an undertaker?" Doyle suggested with would-be lightness. The sudden rigidity in Bodie's face caused his smile to fade. "It was but a jest."

"A poor one," Bodie told him in his most crushing manner. Drawing dry bed linen over Doyle with a deft competence, he avoided so much as the fleeting brush of skin on skin.

Doyle blinked but accepted the rebuke meekly. "Agreed. Thank you. There's nothing further I require. I have the constitution of a horse. The fever will soon pass. But, and only if you are not too fatigued, could you bear to exchange a little conversation?"

"Give me a moment to tend the fire," said Bodie immediately.

He did not hurry over the task. As he drew up a wing-backed chair by the side of the bed he took care to position it so that his face was in the shadows. It offered him the opportunity of studying Doyle without himself being observed too closely.

Doyle suppressed a smile as he recognised what Bodie had done, certain it could not have been accidental. But he didn't comment on the action; he had no wish to cross the other man again until he had the mental and physical strength for such a tussle. He found Bodie's behaviour intriguing; there was some mystery here that he would resolve before he was finished. Bodie was a cautious, if unorthodox host, his abrupt manner in direct contrast to the gentleness of his hands. He seemed remarkably unshockable for a country squire and Doyle looked forward to becoming better acquainted with him.

Uneasy under that unwavering stare, Bodie broke into speech. "When I discovered you on the beach, you wore chains. From your earlier comment it seems that you expected to find a watery grave. I wasn't aware that artists lived such adventurous lives."

Cursing his slackened wits, Doyle tried to collect his thoughts. He found concentration difficult; his sense of familiarity with his host, despite Bodie's lack of overt recognition, was another disconcerting factor to their conversation. He gave the shadowy figure a speculative look, tantalised by something he could not put a name to.

"Nor was I," he admitted easily. "I had a commission to fulfil in Plymouth." That, at least, was the truth. Cowley would have to be notified that their man had been intercepted and killed and the despatches taken. "When the sitting was over for the day I wandered down to the harbour where I was set upon by three men and rendered unconscious. The next thing I knew I was on board ship, destined for a watery grave." Doyle kept his tone light only with difficulty, knowing that his fate would have been even less pleasant but for the storm.

"May I ask why?" Bodie's voice revealed no more than polite interest. "The crew washed ashore were French, not British."

Doyle rubbed his nose, an expression of rueful irritation in his eyes. Damn, did the man miss nothing?

"I have no sympathies with the new régime, I assure you. I should explain, in my line of work... Well, suffice to say that each day can offer a new temptation. Many of my subjects are female. Bored, lonely women, unaccustomed to receiving any flattering attention from their menfolk. One of my sitters had unfortunately conceived an ill-timed passion for my person. Misunderstanding my interest, she declared her intention of abandoning her husband for me." Doyle allowed a hint of indignation to creep into his voice as he warmed to the tale he was concocting. "That's when I made my escape from London - for naturally she hadn't thought to consult me before making her announcement. The first I knew of it was when her husband, Marc Bonnard, an emigré, indicated his disapproval on board that ship. The storm was most timely." He paused and asked, "How many survived?"

"None save yourself that I am aware of," said Bodie unemotionally. He watched the changes of expression on Doyle's mercurial face.

He didn't believe the story he had been told for one moment. Equally, he could not believe him to be in the employ of the French - not after the experiences they had shared in France. He chose not to remember that their imprisonment had been under the old régime, or to recall Ray's weakness for supporting the underdog.

Doyle stared at him. "None? Dear God, but the sea is a hard task-master."

"I have known worse," replied Bodie laconically. He stretched out his legs as he leant back in his chair.

"So have I," Doyle admitted after a moment, his thoughts straying back to his calvinistic employer. "The storm must indeed have been fierce. It seems that I am further in your debt than I knew. My thanks. If I might impose further upon your kindness, I should like to send a missive to my lawyer to obtain funds and fresh clothing. I will burden your household for no longer than is necessary."

"You're no burden." His manner brusque, Bodie's brooding gaze was on the dancing flames in the grate. "I think it unlikely that you will be in any condition to travel for some days yet. Rest easy, man," he said with impatience, his dark gaze pinning Doyle where he lay, forestalling any protest he may have wished to voice. "I have no objection to a guest, although I can offer few comforts. I will arrange for your letter to be despatched when you are better able to write it. You will have others concerned for your welfare. May I send a message to your home?"

Doyle gingerly shook his aching head. "There's no need to put you to such inconvenience. My man will not expect me back until the end of the month at the earliest."

"You're not wed?"

Doyle was too exhausted to be able to conceal his surprise at the urgent note in the other man's voice. "No, and at eight and thirty I think it an unlikely occurrence now. My lifestyle is not secure - settled - enough," he amended, bitterness in his voice as he recalled Ann's pretext for ending their betrothal.

Seeing the shadowed eyes, Bodie changed the subject. Taking over the conversational burden when he saw the effort the other man was making to remain awake, he began a tedious description of the most recent acquisition to his stables. Keeping his voice at a monotone, he avoided any hint of the humorous and eventually had the satisfaction of seeing Doyle fall into a light doze.

Neither man gained much benefit from the remaining hours of the night. Each time Doyle stirred, Bodie could see his physical condition was worsening and could hear his rasping struggles for air and occasional gasps of pain. By the time Bertha came to relieve him just before dawn he was frankly glad to escape the tossing, pain-ridden figure for a cleansing ride along the cliff-top as he tried to batten down his errant emotions.

His cropped hair tousled in the sharp, clean air, he dismounted to stare sightlessly out at the horizon. In some ways the situation was easier than he could have anticipated. The Raymond Doyle lying back in his bedchamber was a stranger to him, a lifetime of shared experiences separating them.

It was obvious Doyle had no notion of his identity. Bodie tried to quash the memories that kept flicking through his tired brain. It would be impossible to resume a friendship begun under such bizarre conditions as a prison cell; propinquity had drawn them together, nothing else. Nothing, he told himself fiercely, closing his mind against the memories of tenderness, humour, passion and anger they had been able to share, the bond between them only strengthened by the sharing.

Riding back through the bustling village, smiling faintly when he overheard the ribald comments made about his unshaven appearance, Bodie resolved to take each day as it came. When Doyle recovered his physical strength he would leave to resume his own life. It would be better if he could accept that loss now and try to keep himself distanced from the other man's dangerous charm.

---

BERMONDSEY, MAY 1983

Fighting not to vomit, Bodie felt the car pull up to a halt and devoutly hoped the journey was over. The car shuddered as doors were slammed, then there was a scratching sound in his ear and keys jingled. He shut his eyes, feigning unconsciousness. Anything to buy time.

Fresh air rushed in, easing his immediate plight as the boot lid was raised.

"Right, out you come."

The fingers which locked in his hair brought tears to his eyes. Blinking balefully, Bodie squinted against the barrage of sunlight. In the event, they had physically to lift him out of the confined space. It had been a tight fit in the first place and his cramped and knotted body simply refused to obey him. He was half-carried, half-dragged into the lift by the side of the underground garage, which was empty except for another car. Letting his captors bear his full weight, Bodie didn't waste time assessing his chances of escape. He couldn't even stand unassisted at the moment. Not for the first time he cursed the efficiency of police-issue handcuffs.

"You look terrible," Ken told him happily.

Bodie closed his eyes, only too willing to believe him.

"Never mind," said Lennon cheerfully. "You wait till you see him later, Ken."

The lift doors opened onto a small, functional reception area, empty except for a half-completed desk and counter and some packing cases. The place smelt of wood shavings, glue and paint.

A faint groan escaped Bodie when he landed in an untidy heap in the corner of what was obviously intended for a storeroom. Windowless, with only one sturdy door that locked from the outside, it would make an efficient cell. He sat patiently encouraging the circulation to return to his bloodless limbs, while projecting a look of defeat.

Lennon stood watching him with a worried frown, his face ghostly in the harsh light cast by the solitary bulb. "I don't trust him," he said to no one in particular.

Bodie tried to look harmless but had a conspicuous lack of success.

"Ken, keep him covered. Alec, get rid of that tape. I've got a few questions I want to ask, Doyle."

Timing his movement and hoping he could achieve the necessary power from this angle, Bodie's leg slammed up, his foot aimed at Alec's groin. Tied as he was, the move lacked his usual speed and power; already wary, Alec turned and took the force of the blow on his outer thigh. As Bodie moved to follow through a bullet was placed between his parted thighs, kicking up splinters of wood. He froze.

Losing the plaster across his mouth was agony. That was before Alec kicked him once in the balls, leaving Bodie writhing in a foetal ball of pain, his lungs straining for air.

"All right, Alec. That's enough. Let's not damage the goods too much," Lennon reminded him quietly.

"Well done, Dave," said a new voice from the doorway. "I wasn't expectin' to see you this early. You've done a good - Who the fuck is he?" yelled Jack Hodge in disbelief as Bodie finally managed to sit up.

"Ray Doyle," Lennon said, looking from Bodie to Hodge and back again.

Wiping the worst of the blood onto his sleeve, Bodie gave an urbane smile. "Oh, did you think I was Ray?" he said, all innocence. "Sorry. He was out running when you picked me up. I'm his partner, Bodie."

Hodge blocked Lennon's blow at the last moment, his own rage cooling. There was a thoughtful look on his face which Bodie didn't care for at all.

"Leave it Dave. For now, anyway. I'm getting the beginnings of a good idea. It's my fault for not giving you a description of Doyle. I forgot none of you lot had ever met the double-dealing bastard." There was pure venom in his voice, his eyes mirroring it when he turned his attention back to Bodie. "Doyle's partner, did you say? Then maybe we'll find out how much you're worth to him alive."

Bodie manufactured an amused grin. "I doubt it, sunshine. There's no love lost between us. He'll probably volunteer to help you. Or pay you to keep me."

"Then how come the pair of you were sharing a room?" demanded Ken, latching on to the one fact he was certain of.

Bodie was almost tempted to tell them the truth before sanity prevailed.

"We were undercover." He sounded bored. Stretching out his legs with every appearance of ease, he glanced at each man in turn. "You really fucked up big-time, fellas," he told them provocatively. "Now you've got every copper and CI5 agent in the country looking out for me. And you."

"Maybe we have," Hodge conceded, "but first they've got to find you. Ken, dump the shooters. We won't need them here. There's other ways to keep this one under control. Well, Mister Bodie. Suppose we find out just how much your partner does think of you. You'd better pray it's enough. It probably will be," he added reflectively, "Doyle always was an easy touch for a sob-story."

No change there then, Bodie thought with resignation.

Hodge turned back to Lennon. "OK, he's all yours. If you've got any scores to settle, do it now. Just don't break too much. I'm off to make a couple of phone calls." As he left the small room Dave Lennon was already advancing on Bodie.

---

CORNWALL, MAY 1799

Bodie took his place in the master bedroom on the fourth night, half-dreading what he would find. Doyle's condition had deteriorated with a frightening rapidity. Only Bertha's skill with herbs and his own mistrust of medical men had prevented him from sending for a physician long ago.

"Remember now, call me if you need anything or if he grows worse," whispered Bertha. She turned in the doorway, her expression concerned. "And make sure you get some rest yourself, instead of tryin' to burn the candle at both ends. This one's a good enough lad but he ain't worth you wrecking your own health over, Master William."

"Bodie. His name is Bodie. No more, no less," said a husky voice from the bed.

Even as he turned Bodie knew Doyle would be smiling that familiar smile. His grin of delight faded when Doyle immediately began to cough again, the harsh sound tearing through the quiet room. All his attention given to Doyle, he did not notice Bertha leave the room at her husband's urging.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Bodie supported Doyle until he slumped against him in a semi-conscious stupor, exhausted by the paroxysm. His touch sure and gentle, Bodie wiped the burning skin with a cool cloth before he returned Doyle to the support of the banked-up pillows and brushed the tangled hair from his eyes. Doyle didn't stir but his drawn face revealed the toll four days of fever had taken of his strength. Only the bruises down one side of his face and the dark crescents of his lashes provided any colour to his seemingly bloodless skin. His rasping struggles for air and the crackling of the logs in the fireplace were the only sounds, except for the roar of the incoming tide.

Bodie sank into his armchair close to the bedside, hating it and everything else about the room now. Would the damn fever never break? Doyle was burning up before his eyes and there wasn't a single thing he could do but watch it happen. Patience had never been one of his virtues. He wasn't accustomed to feeling so helpless for he had always relied on his own resources to survive, taking his own strength and abilities for granted. Here they were of no purpose, for they could not aid Ray.

He had seen many die from congestion of the lungs. He had even nursed a fellow mercenary when they had been cut off from their main troop behind enemy lines. He had looked after him of necessity and with competence, but O'Herlian's death, when it had come, had not touched him beyond a moment of fleeting regret. Staring blankly into the glowing heart of the fire, Bodie tried to erase the fear from his mind. If he didn't think about it the worst would never happen. It was a childish superstition he had put behind him at the age of seven. Damn it, and damn Ray for making him care after all the years that had passed.

It was very hot in the room and he had not slept for more than two hours at a stretch since Doyle had been swept into his life. Under the hypnotic influence of the fire his eyelids drooped to a close; he was asleep in seconds.

Stiff and disorientated, he awoke to find the candles burnt down and Doyle in the throes of some feverish nightmare. He was thrashing wildly in a tangle of bed-linen, his face taut with the horror of what he saw. Before Bodie could reach him, pain from the cracked ribs obviously penetrated his fogged nightmare. He gave a shuddering cry, his eyes snapping open.

Bodie grasped the outflung hand. The sight of him seemed to reassure Doyle, who gave a faint, relieved smile before he was overtaken by another fit of coughing which threatened to tear him apart.

His eyes streaming by the time the fit eased, Doyle slumped against Bodie, each strained inhalation for air bringing fresh pain. Gradually his breathing eased, his face losing its unnatural colour. Small tremors of pain shivered through him; a whimper escaped him, his grasp on Bodie's arm tightening.

It was that sound which defeated Bodie utterly, for he knew what it took to bring the other man to such a case. Grasping Doyle's face firmly between his palms, he glared into the fever-bright eyes.

"Damn you to hell. Are you going to give up without a struggle and die on me? Fight, damn you," he commanded savagely. His hands cradled Doyle's burning skin, his fingers hard against the high planes of the cheekbones, shaking him slightly. "Come on, Ray, fight. Fight me, if not the fever."

The too-bright eyes closed. Bodie wasn't sure if Doyle had even heard his anguished plea. For a moment he was on the point of giving up. His eyes squeezed shut, he buried his face in the matted hair, his fingers lacing around the skull.

"If you die on me now I swear I'll follow you," he threatened shakily, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "I won't lose you again, do you hear me? I won't lose you again!"

Doyle mumbled something it was impossible to distinguish and burrowed closer into the warmth, vaguely aware that someone was calling him but unwilling to leave his safe refuge. There was an inexpressible relief in being able to trust so openly; to be able to set his burdens on a pair of broad shoulders until he should have recovered his strength. He eased into a dream-free sleep.

Bodie raised his head, fingers urgent as he checked the pulse in Doyle's neck before he relaxed. Heat was still radiating from Doyle's body, his skin burning to the touch, but his breathing seemed less laboured and he had not coughed for some minutes. Bodie sat holding the other man in that semi-embrace for what remained of the night.

Watching over the sleeping figure with the concentration of a hawk over a rabbit warren, Bodie willed his strength and vitality into the other man as he soothed Doyle with his voice and hands, flushing absurdly with pleasure when he realised that both seemed to quieten him a little.

By dawn the entwined figures were both drenched with sweat: the fever had broken.



Propped against a bank of pillows, Doyle slammed shut the book he had been staring at, abandoning the pretence of being able to read it. Bodie had left the house early the day before, having left the door of the library locked. In the absence of a key, this was the only volume Bertha had been able to produce. Doyle gave it a look of disbelief. He refused to believe Bodie would ever entertain the notion of sitting through a single sermon, never mind actually perusing a book of them.

Giving a gusty sigh, he tossed the book to the foot of the bed as he admitted the real cause of his irritation. He was bored to distraction. Too weak to leave the bed, he was recovered enough to resent his predicament, ready to vent his frustration on the first person he saw.

No one had come near him. Bodie was away on unspecified business, Jedediah had taken Bertha to the local market and the two chits who now spent part of every day working here had been warned away from him by Bertha in no uncertain terms. They were doubtless giggling together in the kitchen.

It had been a long, tedious day. Even the dog, who had taken to spending some hours with him each day, lolling fatuously under a caressing hand, had abandoned him for the pleasure of the Spring sunshine that was flooding the room.

Doyle was prepared to admit to himself that during the last two days he had come to miss his host abominably. Bodie's caustic wit and bracing manner had provided a welcome diversion from his discomfort and Bertha's over-protective care, although it still pained him to laugh. He knew his feelings of abandonment to be unreasonable but, wallowing in misery, he was too irritable to care. Bodie had taken to spending each evening with him. They would talk over the port, or he would read aloud, adding his own scurrilous comments to the broadsheets that still appeared, or they played cards or dice. Bodie cheated without shame on discovering Doyle's habitual good fortune. He was a skilled card-sharp and Doyle still had to master the knack of palming the ace as neatly, despite Bodie's patient efforts to teach him that art.

Bodie made an unpredictable companion; moments of ease could freeze into a cold formality, then thaw again, all for no cause that Doyle could discern. He didn't question the swings in the other man's mood because it would have been an unwarranted intrusion of a privacy which Bodie obviously held dear. Besides, it was clear that he was exhausted.

Doyle had been at a loss to account for the cause, until it occurred to him that Bertha and Jedediah could not have tended him continuously. Much of his stay at Shambolt's Cove was unclear to him, lost in a pain-ridden confusion of fever, but he remembered cool hands against his heat and the sound of a calm voice waking him from some fever-driven nightmare.

It was the tenderness he remembered which had made Doyle doubt it could have been Bodie, for there was no hint that he was capable of such gentle emotion in his usual manner. Then, one night, unable to sleep for any period of time, he had stirred to find Bodie sitting beside him, his unguarded expression one Doyle could still see in his mind's eye. Sensing the deep unhappiness of the brooding figure he had asked what was wrong and recognised his mistake immediately. His face smoothing in an instant, Bodie had made some flippant comment and left soon afterwards. When he returned in the morning it was in the company of Bertha and his manner had been curt to the point of incivility, drawing a reproof from Bertha. Doyle had seen little of Bodie since then.

He reminded himself that he had no cause to complain of the change. It was only to be expected. Bodie had expended a great deal of time and effort in tending to him. He was an unlikely candidate for a nursemaid; his patience was obviously worn away.

Cowley would receive his message by the end of the week. It should only take a few days longer for someone to make the journey down from London to receive his report and bring him funds and clothing. Then he would be free to leave Shambolt's Cove and put up at a posting house until he was equal to making the journey back to town.

Doyle refused to admit, even to himself, how weak the bout of fever had left him. It still took all his strength to leave the bed, never mind contemplate quitting the house. Worse than that, he had no real wish to leave. In fact he would welcome the opportunity to further his acquaintance with his host. Bodie infuriated, intrigued and exasperated him, sometimes at the same moment, but he couldn't quash the conviction that in Bodie he had found someone he could call 'friend' and mean it. But there was little chance of such a relationship flourishing. He must leave and permit Bodie to resume his normal lifestyle as soon as he was able. Besides, if he truly wished to know the other man better he would have to be prepared to commit himself, and that was something he had done only once in his life.

Blocking the memory, something he had become expert at over the years, Doyle decided it was time to hasten the speed of his recovery. Throwing back the bedcovers, he sat on the edge of the mattress, grimacing as his ribs and torn back protested at the same time. Swaying, he made it to his feet.

He was weaker than a babe in arms, he discovered, the realisation spurring him to move from the security of the bed. Moving with caution, his hand pressed to his side, he finally reached the casement windows that looked down onto the rocks below. Grateful for any prop, he leant forward and rested his heated face against the glass. He had found the temperature in the room warm before his endeavours; he was sweating freely now, the hair clinging damply to his forehead. When he had the breath to spare he opened the stiff casement window. He gave a sigh of relief as the warm, salt-laden air played over his skin.

It was a fine day, the near-motionless sea glinting innocently in the sunlight, its power leashed after the storm that had pounded the coastline for the last twelve days.

Doyle frowned pensively as he stared out across the horizon. Cowley was going to be furious that the despatches had been lost. There must be another breach in their security; it was the only explanation for their man being intercepted before he had a chance to pass on the papers. Ten years ago another breach had been traced to the Foreign Office via a trail of blackmail and gambling debts. This time? Who knew? There had been an increasing number of assignments that had gone awry, not merely those relating to the surveillance of the situation in France or conduct of the war. Finding the traitor in their midst was Cowley's task. If he couldn't succeed, no man could. Until then, it was an uneasy feeling to know you could not trust the men with whom you worked. But then he should be used to that. He'd known the risks when he had joined.

That did not reduce his sense of loneliness. The one time he had been free to trust he had been a prisoner. But propinquity had had nothing to do with the friendship - damn it, the love - which had grown between John -

Doyle clamped down hard on the memories. Reminiscing was a pastime he had forbidden himself to indulge in; it was too painful. Lost in melancholy thoughts, he did not hear the bedroom door open.

Still dressed in his mud-stained riding clothes, Bodie came to an abrupt halt, his greeting dying unvoiced when he saw Doyle's naked figure standing directly in front of him. His hand clenched over the door handle as his breath caught in his throat.

Ray stood in the full light of the sun which flooded through the leaded windows, the play of light and shadow highlighting the naked length of him. He looked a lonely and somewhat vulnerable figure, his bowed head and slumped shoulders giving some indication of his mood. The unruly hair curling riotously to the nape of his neck was lit in a myriad shades of chestnut by the sun, the breeze from the open window ruffling it into further disorder. Unwilling to disturb the other man, Bodie continued to study him through hungry eyes.

Doyle moved slightly, re-apportioning his weight, and Bodie was made achingly aware of every flex of muscle down the long spine; the clench of a rounded buttock, the bunch of muscle in calf and thigh as he leant forward again, his head drooping as if his neck could not bear its weight. There was a forlorn dignity about him as he stood quite unconscious of the man watching him so intently.

Bodie discovered he was shaking. He hadn't realised how beautiful the other man was. The light in the cell had been poor, Doyle's blindness preventing him from studying his companion as avidly as he might otherwise have done. Since Doyle's arrival at Shambolt's Cove he had forbidden himself to study him through the eyes of a lover, trying to maintain his distance.

He might just as well have tried to stop himself from breathing.

It was impossible to stop staring, trying to imprint every tiny detail in his mind's eye. The muscled planes of the wide shoulders were still marred by the deep, ugly-looking gashes Doyle had sustained as he was buffeted against the rocks, but elsewhere his skin gleamed in the mellow light of the afternoon sun, the faint sheen of sweat highlighting the dusting of hair in the hollow of his back, and the more generous allowance on his legs and forearms. When a long-fingered hand moved where it rested against the window catch Bodie relived the memories of that hand on his body, loving him.

His very bones feeling as if he was melting, Bodie knew with an aching clarity that all his efforts to keep himself distanced from Doyle had been useless. He was captured whether he willed it or no, the ten years falling away as if they had never been. Whatever he might have tried to convince himself earlier, Ray was no stranger to him. The years might have wrought many changes but not that many. He was beginning to believe that no amount of time could achieve that.

It didn't surprise him that he should still desire the elegant body, but foolishly he had hoped that physical hunger was all that remained. Now he could no longer pretend that was the case. Even with his blood singing with a sweet fire, his body yearning for that muscular strength moving against him, he knew that desire was the least of his feelings. For the first time in ten years he felt alive with every cell of his body.

His hand clenched white-knuckled with pressure on the door handle. He wanted desperately to break his self-imposed ban and reveal his true identity to Doyle. Fear constricted his throat. Having kept silent for this long, what possible explanation could he offer now? Besides, he wasn't sure if he would be able to bear Doyle's rejection, or to see him remember and look at him questioningly, trying from courtesy to offer some response. Those green eyes had always been able to see into the heart of him. Even when blind Ray had possessed an uncanny perception. Now that he could see...

From the moment he had found the injured, sea-swept figure on the beach Bodie had been braced for some spark of recognition, some hint of familiarity. There had been none except for that one query Doyle had made on the first night. He would have staked his life on Doyle's genuine feeling for him when they had shared their captivity. Obviously he had been in error. What they had shared couldn't have meant much; Doyle would not otherwise have dismissed John Brown so readily from his thoughts.

Pain from his cramped fingers drew Bodie back to an awareness of his situation and the role he had chosen to play. If he continued to stand here like a love-sick puppy Ray would believe he was deranged. Needing both support, and to hide his erection, Bodie leant over the back of a wing-backed chair, schooled his expression and announced his presence.

"Bertha led me to believe you would be resting, so how is it that I find you out of bed?"

Doyle turned, a smile of unconcealed pleasure lighting the bleakness of his face. "I thought you must be away for another night at least."

"I should have been," Bodie admitted, "but I managed to conclude the transaction earlier than I had anticipated." He didn't choose to explain that the speed with which he had done so had been costly, or to admit he had been anxious to return and satisfy himself as to Ray's well-being.

Doyle surveyed him thoughtfully, a smile at the back of his eyes. "Business went well for you."

"What makes you assume that?"

"Your faint look of superiority," Doyle told him with mock-seriousness, still trying to place the other man's expression. Bodie just grinned before unfastening his coat and pulling his neckcloth free with a small sigh of relief.

Taking in the dark blue finery of Bodie's riding coat and the buff, mud-stained breeches, while noting how well they became the other man's muscular thighs and calves, Doyle said, "It's a fine day to have been out riding."

"It is indeed." Bodie tried to appear unconscious of the frank appraisal of his person. "But until you can walk unaided from this room you'll have to resign yourself to hearing of my success at the sales. You're looking fitter already," he added encouragingly. "At this rate you'll soon be up and about."

Doyle grunted in agreement, half-turning to glance out of the window. He had been confined for so long. The light caught his face, revealing the lines of pain and fatigue he sought to disguise. The full mouth was drawn in a little and from the set of his shoulders it was clear he was still in some discomfort.

"Can you return to bed without assistance?" Bodie asked, quelling the rush of tenderness which threatened to overwhelm him. It hurt to see Ray in pain, knowing he could do so little to ease his discomfort.

"Of course I can," snapped Doyle in irritation, pushing aside his own doubts.

"Then do so," ordered Bodie tartly. "And the next time don a robe when you rise, unless it's your intention that we should have to nurse you for even longer."

Doyle took an impetuous step forward. "You weren't asked to nurse me at all." To his disgust he heard the rasping wheeze return to his voice and felt his meagre ration of strength ebb. Trying to make his change of stance appear casual rather than one of necessity, he leant against the window sill. Glaring at Bodie, his eyes were hot and angry as he became aware of the other man's boundless vitality. Dark blue eyes met his before subjecting him to a lengthy scrutiny from toe to crown, their expression one of chilling indifference.

"No, I was not," agreed Bodie finally, his voice deceptively mild. "Nor was Bertha, but it would be less than courteous of you to point that out to her. She's come to hold you in unaccountable regard. I won't have her hurt. Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters requiring my attention elsewhere." He turned to leave, not trusting his mingled desire to shake and hug the stubborn figure opposite him.

Doyle's voice brought him to a standstill. "Damn, I did not intend... Bodie, I'm sorry," he offered in a quiet, sincere voice. "I obviously saved my ill-humour for your return. It's a poor recompense for all your kindness. I won't burden you with protestations of gratitude, but I am aware that I owe you my life. That isn't a debt I take lightly."

Wheeling around, Bodie's face was dark with anger. "There's no debt, you owe me nothing."

"No?" Giving a faint smile of disbelief, Doyle parted his hands, conceding the point. "Have it as you will. We must agree to differ on that, I fear." Pushing himself to his feet, he stood swaying. The bed had never looked so inviting. His eyes lit with a rueful amusement, he looked at Bodie. "I should be grateful if you would assist me after all. The room seems to have grown somewhat larger since I first crossed it."

Shaking his head slightly, Bodie saw him back to bed, refraining from any comment when he saw the drain that exertion had placed on his strength. "If Bertha should ever discover what you were about while her back was turned..."

"You'll not tell her?" Doyle pleaded.

Bodie grinned openly. Bertha had a tendency to swamp her patients with kindness. Ray obviously found being cossetted no more to his liking than he did. "I won't need to," he said frankly. "One look at you and she's bound to guess. No doubt I shall bear the blame for that, too," he added with a doleful sigh.

Doyle ignored it. "You twist her around your little finger."

"And you do not, I suppose?" mocked Bodie.

"Perhaps," Doyle conceded immodestly. "But I could not have received more care from my own family. Has she known you for long?"

"Since I was in short coats." Bodie's tone warned Doyle not to question him further and he scowled and fell silent. "You are in an appalling humour," added Bodie frankly. "What's amiss?" He perched on the arm of the chair and spotted the book lying by Doyle's feet. Reaching over, he opened it with idle curiosity then gave a crack of laughter when he read the title page. "I see you've resorted to religion."

Sorely tried, Doyle hitched himself up in bed, his sense of grievance returned in full force. "I had no choice. It was the only volume Bertha could find for me. You left the library locked. While I'm on the subject, what are you doing with a volume of sermons in the first place?"

"I'm not sure," Bodie admitted, his forehead wrinkling as he tried to place the volume. "It may have been wedging open the serving hatch in the pantry. I must get that fixed," he added absently.

Doyle had never met anyone who took so little note of their surroundings. "Has the house been in your family for many years?"

Bodie raised a surprised eyebrow. "No. I acquired it nearly nine years ago on the throw of a dice. The stables and bloodstock that came with it persuaded me not to sell The house had been permitted to fall into a sad state of repair."

It still seemed so to Doyle but he maintained a polite silence.

Bodie understood him instantly. "It was a great deal worse than it is now, I promise you. At least the structure is sound. Bertha dreams of seeing the place renovated overnight."

"You must play for high stakes," said Doyle, covering how disconcerted he had been to be read so easily.

"Sometimes." Bodie straightened where he sat, warmth vanished from his expression. "The game was a fair one."

"I did not doubt it," said Doyle calmly.

"Did you not?"

Ignoring Bodie's scepticism, Doyle grinned. "Despite your blatant dishonesty when playing faro with me, no, it did not occur to me. Now will you stop scowling?"

"You're very trusting," sneered Bodie.

"Far from it, as a rule. But I do trust you."

"Why?"

Caught in the intent gaze holding his own, Doyle dropped his eyes. "Why not?" he countered, unable to provide a single rational argument to satisfy himself, let alone Bodie. "On discovering me in chains, aboard a French ship, you chose to wait to hear my story rather than summoning the militia or a magistrate. That's a curious act of trust for one who claims to be a sceptic."

"I might have some nefarious purpose behind my action," Bodie told the counterpane.

"Now that," said Doyle with conviction, "is a distinct possibility."

Grinning, Bodie adroitly changed the subject to that of horseflesh and the remainder of the day passed quickly in amicable discussion.



Paper propped on the edge of the kitchen table, the homely smells of cooking around him, Doyle sat happily engrossed in sketching Bertha as she prepared a batch of baking.

The large, comfortable kitchen was one of the best-lit rooms in the house and ideal for his purpose. His concentration centred on his subject, Doyle studied the proportions of Bertha's face with a critical eye. Having come to take his presence here for granted by this time, she paid him no heed. Humming softly to herself, she added the finishing touches to an apple pie.

Jedediah spared Doyle a frown of disapproval as he stomped through the side door, but he held his peace. Bertha was happy with someone to tend to and Master William seemed more like his old self again, except that he spent most of his evenings with Doyle, rather than out carousing. Maybe the lad wasn't so bad to have about the place, for all that he made a deal of extra work.

It was only Doyle's third day out of bed. He had made an abominable patient in the last stages of convalescence, only his lack of clothing restricting his wanderings to the house. On discovering him strolling with naked unconcern in the direction of the library, Bertha had given in and supplied him with clothing from Bodie's wardrobe. The two men were enough of a size for that to be possible, although Doyle had to wear his own sea-stained boots until he should be able to go to town to purchase new ones. At least she didn't have to fret about him running into Tom Chegwidden's two girls, who were helping around the house. Not that they'd complain. Master Ray neither, from the glint in his eyes when he'd first seen them. But Tom kept a close eye on his daughters, for all that they were flighty pieces.

Contentedly Bertha started to make some macaroons. The hours of the afternoon slid by unnoticed by either occupant of the kitchen.

Doyle finally glanced up, drawn as much by the fading light as the sound of a carriage pulling up outside. "We have visitors," he announced, appropriating a warm macaroon where they were cooling on a wire tray next to him. Biting into it, his mumble of appreciation turned to a muffled yelp as Bertha caught him across the knuckles with her heavy serving ladle.

"That hurt," he told her indignantly as he sucked at the reddened flesh. "But I'll forgive you. You cook like an angel."

Bertha gave a sniff of disbelief. "I set no store by cupboard love," she told him briskly, but she made no demur when another tart went the way of the first.

A shirt-sleeved arm reached over Doyle's shoulder, neatly stealing the tart Doyle had appropriated. Leaning back, he looked up into smiling blue eyes.

"Thief," he accused.

"Not at all. The carriage you heard signals your official arrival to Shambolt's Cove," Bodie told him as he studied the drawing Doyle had been working on. "These tarts are good, Bertha."

"Well don't go eating them all."

"My arrival?" queried Doyle.

"That's right. As from this moment you're an official guest of mine. An acquaintance from London."

"Does that mean I'm permitted to call you William?" inquired Doyle irrepressibly.

Bodie aimed a friendly swipe in his direction. "It does not, unless you wish to become my late acquaintance in short order."

"That's no more than I expected," said Doyle philosophically. "Is this pretence really necessary?"

"You can answer that better than I. But I believe so. Captain Ross was here asking a number of pointed questions about any passengers the ship you were on may have been carrying."

His expression a studied blank, Doyle fought the temptation to tell Bodie the truth. But despite his instinct to trust the man, smuggling was rife along this portion of the coast, almost on a par with that in the south-east. Cowley suspected some of the smugglers of being involved in a trade more sinister than importing brandy and lace. He dare not risk it.

"Well at least I shall be free to leave the house now," he said, stretching out his legs.

"To hear you talk anyone would imagine you'd been imprisoned here," said Bodie irritably.

"You mean I haven't?" Doyle looked up at him through his lashes.

Seeming to misunderstand that teasing remark, Bodie tensed.

"There's no call to go takin' that tone," Bertha told Doyle. "And if you've quite done with your scribbling I'll thank you to leave me to my kitchen before you eat everything on that tray."

"But I'm hungry," complained Doyle plaintively.

"You should have eaten something this morning then," Bertha told him forcefully. Glancing at the woebegone face turned up to her she relented and pushed the tray closer to him. "You should have gone on the stage," she told him dryly.

"I know." He gave her another dazzling smile. "But these are good." Tapping Bodie on the arm, he passed him another tart by way of a peace offering.

Bodie took it absently. "So are these," he said as he flicked through the sketch pad. Some of the line drawings were only half-completed but one page held four sketches of Bertha's face; the vitality in the brief lines leapt from the page.

"Of course they are," said Doyle, but he couldn't hide his gratification.

Bodie gave him a quelling glance. "There's no 'of course' about it. You have a real ability. I like this one, you've caught Bertha exactly."

He held it up, and as he knew it would, succeeded in arousing her interest. Wiping her floury hands on a cloth, she came around the table to stand between them.

"It can't do no harm to take a look," she conceded grudgingly.

Doyle took the pad from Bodie. "No, I wouldn't want you to feel obliged to admire them just to please me," he said. "You get back to your baking. We've disturbed you enough."

"Huh!" She ousted him from his chair, removed the pad from his slackened grasp, and seated herself. "Have done, Master Ray. Can't you do anything with him?" she appealed to Bodie.

Perched on the corner of the table, one booted foot swinging lazily, Bodie was watching the pair of them with a barely concealed amusement. "He's no concern of mine," he told her with lazy good-humour. He could think of a number of things he would enjoy doing with the mischievous-faced man now leaning over Bertha's shoulder, engaged in whispering outrageous compliments in her ear.

"You've made me too handsome," she told Doyle severely, but her eyes were sparkling like a girl of seventeen.

Doyle gave her a swift kiss, then another, lingering longer this time. "And so you are," he told her affectionately. "I drew only what I saw. Look in the mirror. Or better still, ask Jedediah what he thinks of them. If you get tired of cooking for such louts I'll take you to London with me."

"Stop talking so daft," Bertha advised him. She softened the reproof by brushing back a wayward curl from the eyes smiling at her, feeling the pull of his charm for all that she was old enough to be his mother. "You're a good lad, despite your foolish talk. I've a fancy to have one as a keepsake. Can I?"

Inordinately pleased, Doyle gave her a quick hug. "You could have my heart on a plate and a knife to cut it with. They're all yours if you want them. But let me keep these a while longer. I've a fancy to paint you in oils, but unless you're going to let me work in your kitchen, I shall need these to work from."

"I'm not having no paints messin' up my kitchen, that's for sure." Her eyes searched his face. "Lad, are you sure you want the bother of paintin' the likes of me?"

"I'm positive." Doyle traced the line of her jaw with his finger. "I haven't captured this properly yet. You have beautiful bones. Besides, this will be a labour of love."

"Poppycock," snorted Jedediah with disgust from behind them. "No one's thought to ask me what I think of the notion, I see."

"And why should they?" demanded Bertha, eyeing him with impatience. "It's me he's after painting. Give over belly-achin' do."

Doyle left his perch on the corner of the table. "I will make a good job of it," he promised the older man, conscious of Jedediah's dislike without understanding its cause. "But if you object in any way I would be happy to make the preliminary sketches while you were present." There was no trace of mockery in the offer and it was clear he regarded himself as speaking to an equal.

Bodie glanced between the two men but remained silent. The decision was Jedediah's to make. Bertha also remained silent, but there was an ominous glint in her eyes as she looked at her spouse. Trapped, Jedediah glared at the cause of his troubles, then down at his wife again, his hard gaze softening despite himself.

"You'd best do as you think fit, the same as always," he told her gruffly. His eyes slid back to the final drawing on the pad, then widened in surprised delight. He touched a work-scarred finger to the generous mouth that twitched with humour even on the page.

"This be Bertha, right enough. You've caught her just perfect. I'd be 'bliged if you'd do it," he told Doyle. "It'd be fine to have a picture of my Bertha."

"Good," said Doyle briskly, his manner softening when he saw the awkwardness in the older man's demeanour. "And thank you. I shall enjoy doing this very much." He was warmed by their obvious pleasure in his skill. It had been too long since he had treated his true work seriously, much too long. "I'll begin the preliminary sketches tomorrow and go into town for some..." His voice trailed away when Bodie's cough reminded him of the other man's presence and position in the household.

He raised guilty eyes to meet the hilarious ones of his host. "That is, if you have no objection to my staying on," he said hesitantly, flushing slightly.

"I wondered when you would remember my existence," Bodie told him, enjoying the other man's confusion. "Quite apart from the fact you're in no condition to ride anywhere at present, you are welcome to stay for as long as you wish. You'd best give me a list of the supplies you require." As he spoke he realised the offer was contrary to everything he had planned when the time came. He had intended to speed Doyle on his way and then contrive to forget him as quickly as possible.

"If you're sure?" There was still a trace of doubt on Doyle's face.

Bodie poured them both tankards of ale and thrust one at Doyle. "Drink this. Of course I'm sure. Hell, you're almost part of the family already. Which room are you planning to disrupt next?"

Leaning indolently back against the wall, one hand shoved in his breeches pocket, Doyle gave him a speculative look. "Your room has the best light."

Bodie groaned. "It had to be my room. I suppose that means you want it back to paint in?"

"Well..."

"I always wanted to try out each bedchamber in the house," Bodie remarked to no one in particular.

"Then it's fortunate I came along, isn't it?" Doyle told him.



The dog dozing on his crossed ankles, Doyle looked up from the book he was endeavouring to read when the library door opened.

"Visitor for 'ee," announced Jedediah. "A Mister Cowley. He claims to be a friend of yourn."

Wondering what he could have done to offend Jedediah now, a wide smile swept across Doyle's face as he rose to his feet. The discarded book fell on the sleeping dog. As Cowley entered the room, Doyle was bent to calm a justifiably irate animal. He straightened, one hand outstretched in welcome.

"I did not think to see you here in person," he exclaimed, mindful of Jedediah's presence.

"Sometimes I wonder whether you are capable of rational thought at all. Had you been more circumspect, my journey would not have been necessary," he said severely, giving Doyle an assessing stare as he sank onto a chair.

"No, sir," agreed Doyle with unwonted obedience, refusing to rise to the bait when he recognised the older man's fatigue.

"No doubt you'll be explaining everything to my satisfaction," said Cowley in dry invitation. He didn't turn to acknowledge Jedediah, who was unashamedly eavesdropping in the doorway.

"No doubt," Doyle agreed, his mouth twitching with amusement. "Jedediah, has Bodie returned home? My host," he explained to Cowley in a quick aside.

"I dunno but you know him by now. I'd be the last to be told. Why?"

Doyle sighed. There were times when he wondered how Bodie could tolerate the older man's manner. This was one of them.

"I had hoped he could meet my - an old friend - for I know Mister Cowley will not be able to stay long. Sir, may I offer you any refreshment?"

"Any of Master William's, you mean," interjected Jedediah sourly but he fell silent under Doyle's quelling stare.

"Careful, Jedediah, you're in danger of making a guest feel welcome. You may close the door behind you."

"You don't want me here?"

"Have you been at the brandy again? If so, you can put yourself to bed this time, I'll have nothing to do with it. But you'd best steer clear of Bertha in the meantime," Doyle warned.

Jedediah gave an indignant snort but he didn't stay to argue the matter, knowing himself to be in a poor defensive position. He made his point by leaving the door for Doyle to close.

Cowley got up and removed his travelling cape, hanging it over the back of his chair. "He has no great love for you - or anyone else, it would seem. Is he an old family retainer of your host?"

"Old, certainly. As for the rest, God knows," said Doyle with a shrug. "It's the only reason I can conceive for putting up with him, but he's loyal to Bodie and does whatever might be necessary. Have you dined, sir? While we keep early hours in the country, I know Bertha would be happy to provide you with something."

"I've dined. The meal isn't an experience I would care to repeat." Cowley eyed the dog bristling at Doyle's side, aware of the soft menace rumbling from the animal's throat. "Is that thing safe?"

"Who, Dog?" Doyle caressed a silky ear and the rumbling subsided. "Completely, but in common with the rest of the household he has no love for strangers." Seeing Cowley's doubtful looks at the creature he escorted the hound out of the room.

"I'm beginning to understand why this is not one of the most populated spots in the country," Cowley remarked. Glimpsing the time from the ornate clock on the mantelshelf, his manner grew more brisk. "I haven't come all this way to exchange social pleasantries. How did those dispatches come to be lost?"



"No," said Doyle with decision when he had heard Cowley out an hour later. "I won't do it."

"I beg your pardon?" The older man's voice was icy.

"You heard me. By God, this is the end!" Doyle wheeled around, his eyes dark with anger. "You cannot seriously expect me to spy on my host?"

"Why not?" returned Cowley with polite interest. "You've done so before. Why should this be any different? Bodie may be engaged in smuggling something more dangerous - and valuable - than brandy."

Doyle stopped his restless pacing and leant over the back of the chair he had vacated. "Let me be clear on this. The only proof you have that Bodie might be engaged in smuggling contraband is founded on rumour and malicious gossip. He chooses not to conform to what local society expects of the head of the household. Then you have the valuable opinion, nothing more, of Captain Ross, the commander of the local garrison." There was a biting contempt in his voice by this time. "Having met that gentleman three days ago, I can understand why he was posted to this out-of-the-way spot. He's a small-minded man who permits personal considerations to colour his professional judgement. I place no faith in his opinion." He gave Cowley a severe look. "And if we have to descend to relying upon men of his calibre, I suggest you begin recruiting for new blood with some speed. He's a poor leader of men. The fool cannot even command himself."

"I know your host and he enjoy a mutual antipathy. I wasn't aware you shared it."

"Captain Ross takes himself too seriously for my taste," said Doyle more moderately.

"You find the safety of the realm a matter for levity?" The question dropped coldly between them.

Doyle straightened, his eyes narrowing with anger. "If I did, I would hardly have spent these last fifteen years in its service. Though I'm damned if I know why."

"You've been well rewarded," Cowley reminded him, aware of the comfortable Doyle fortune which ensured the younger man need never have a financial care. The barb placed, he sat back.

"You imagine that's the reason - ? Be damned to you."

His lips compressed, Doyle came to an abrupt halt, visibly reining in his temper. Some of Cowley's satisfaction seemed to reach him because, pushing back his hair from his eyes, he sighed. "Every time you goad me in this way I react and - You would imagine I would have learnt something of your methods in fifteen years."

"You've learnt a great deal, but I should be disappointed if I couldn't catch you out on occasion," said Cowley mildly.

Doyle pulled a face and sank back onto his chair. Taking up his glass of brandy, his other hand unconsciously moved to his side, which was paining him.

Cowley watched him thoughtfully from over the top of his glass. "Are the doctors satisfied with your recovery?" His abrupt manner failed to cover his concern.

"I am satisfied, that's all that need concern you," Doyle said shortly.

His gaze dropping, he stared into the amber depths of his glass but he made no attempt to drink from it. "I arrived a penniless vagabond and was nursed back to health with skill and kindness. How can I in all conscience pry into the affairs of the man responsible for giving me my life?"

"Your host is obviously a man of many parts, and capable of winning your respect. But he's dangerous. Until he settled here rumour has it he roamed the less salubrious parts of Europe selling his skills as a mercenary. I believe they are formidable. He possesses some curious talents for a country squire."

"He has lived in peaceful obscurity for nine years," protested Doyle, unable to believe in Bodie's pastoral lifestyle himself.

"Perhaps he has, but I believe it to be unlikely. That's what I want you to ascertain. I have no one else down here, competent or otherwise. You have already been accepted as part of local society. If Bodie isn't our traitor I want to know who is. The rights and wrongs of smuggling are no concern of mine - This is a remarkably fine brandy. If there is any more?"

He watched quizzically as Doyle poured him a generous measure. Cowley cupped the glass between his palms, inhaling the aroma with a gentle pleasure. "I appreciate your distaste for this task but I must use a man I can trust. Frankly there are few people on that list at present."

"Why am I so honoured?"

"Necessity," Cowley told him with brutal honesty.

Doyle gave a smile of genuine appreciation. "That's what I imagined. God knows it's rare enough to bask in the sunshine of your approval. I feared you might be losing your touch."

"Did you now?" Cowley smiled as he toasted the younger man. He'd missed Doyle's abrasive presence over the last few weeks. Few of his operatives possessed this man's experience and talents. He'd grown accustomed to Doyle over the years, learning to deal with his tiresome bouts of morality and conscience, and his spurts of temper and always irreverent manner toward himself. If Bodie were cleared, perhaps... But that must come later, when Doyle had completed his task here.

"You're protective of your host. May I rely upon your judgement in this matter or must I send for someone else?"

The brusque tone did not rouse Doyle from his abstraction as he stared into the fire, knowing himself to be trapped in the nebulous concept he thought of as duty.

"Oh yes, you may rely upon my judgement," he acknowledged dully. Unable to remain still, he tended unnecessarily to the fire. Gripping the mantelshelf, he stared into the flames, disliking himself and the task he had agreed to perform in equal measure.

"To whom should I report?" he asked, his back still to the room. "It may take some time to establish the truth. Fortunately Bodie has extended his hospitality until such time as I wish to leave."

"That certainly makes things easier," Cowley said with satisfaction. "Report to me and only to me. Continue to use the address at Lincoln's Inn for written communications. Commit yourself as little as possible to paper, regular, trivial messages will suffice. The matter is not yet urgent but this is one gap in the coastline that I'll see filled. The operation is run too smoothly. Should you require assistance, call on Captain Ross. He's aware you're an agent for the Crown."

Doyle swung around. Cowley waved him into silence.

"I know, but he had to be supplied with some tale to explain your presence. He knew of your arrival within three days, and was on the point of detaining you on suspicion of being an agent for the French. The secret of your presence wasn't well kept, whatever your host might believe. Word travels fast in small communities."

"Indeed it does." Doyle wondered if Bodie knew of the traitor in his midst. "Very well, I will do what I can."

"You must do more than that. Find our traitorous friend. The defeat at Aboukir Bay may have quietened the fears of the Admiralty, but the political situation in France is such that - I don't believe they've abandoned their invasion plans. French intelligence has been stepped up by a marked degree. I want this man. More particularly, I want whoever recruited him." Uncertain of Doyle's mood, Cowley stared at the bowed head. "Well, cheer up, man. It's a task you've undertaken before and doubtless you'll have to do so in the future. This is no different. But have a care. I've no mind to lose your services."

"No, sir," said Doyle colourlessly.

His subdued manner was still in evidence when Cowley left shortly before ten, his carriage no longer burdened by the luggage he had brought for Doyle.

As he carried the last trunk up to his room Doyle knew that whatever he might admit to George Cowley, this operation was different from any other he had undertaken. This time he had committed the cardinal error of permitting himself to care for everyone at Shambolt's Cove, even Jedediah.

Having no wish to meet Bodie while he was prey to such melancholy thoughts, Doyle saw to the dog's needs and retired for the night. He did not sleep well.

---

CORNWALL, MAY 1983

Alone in the bedroom once more, Doyle heaved a sigh of relief and pushed a tired hand back through his hair. He'd never enjoyed working solo. Or not for some years.

Seven years, to be exact. And during those years he had always known, roughly, where Bodie was, what he was up to. Now...

He gave the silent telephone a look of impatient dislike. Ring, damn you.

Even the plumbing was silent.

Cowley's promised backup had arrived just before eleven. Now he had an outside phone, duly tapped and a man on the switchboard, ready to divert any calls. The team Cowley had sent down were competent and unobtrusive, smoothly taking charge of liaising with the police investigation that was still underway in tracing the blue Granada and the other details that abounded in this kind of operation. They were good all right, but all they'd left him to do was wait.

Not his strong point.

The room was quiet, leaving him with memories of last night and the guilt. He should have been here.

Self-defeating thing, guilt. Bodie would give him hell for indulging in it.

Pacing across the room, Doyle paused in front of the dead fire; gripping the mantelpiece, he gazed blankly down at the grey wood ash in the hearth, fighting his growing fear for his partner's safety.

He couldn't remember feeling like this before. Numb round the edges and inside carrying a weight of pain that threatened to tear him apart. He'd been afraid before - more times than he liked to admit. Fear was a way of life in CI5. When you stopped being afraid it was time to leave. He'd learnt, to a degree, how to handle the fear, make it work for him.

Bodie.

Christ, he could be dead and he wouldn't know it.

Doyle's head flung back, his eyes hot with anger. Morbid and stupid, he castigated himself. Of course he'd know. You couldn't lost half yourself and not know it.

The first chime of the clock made him leap towards the phone before he realised what the sound was. It must be the room getting to him, he decided, shivering despite the sun outside.

There was something... peculiar about this room. Glaring around the dark panelled walls with bitter dislike, he sank onto a wing-backed chair by the dead fire to wait, his sense of loss intensifying as the cold familiarity of the room settled around him.

---

CORNWALL, JUNE - JULY 1799

"Where's Ray?" asked Bodie as he strolled into the warm kitchen.

"He went to town before luncheon," said Jedediah. He didn't look up from his mug of ale as he sat by the blazing fire, his damp stockinged feet steaming as he thawed out.

"And you let him go out in this?"

Jedediah glared up at him. "You try stoppin' that one when he puts his mind to something. He said he had business to attend to. I dunno what," he added, forestalling Bodie's question. "What in tarnation are you doin'?" he yelled in outrage as the back door was flung open. An icy blast whistled in, speckling everything in the vicinity with rain.

"I'm going after him," said Bodie, too angry to say more.

"What for?" asked Jedediah reasonably, getting up to close the door again. "He's a man full grown. Let him be. If he wants to get chilled to the bone, that's his affair."

Bodie stared out at the storm that was raging. His arm was paining him badly now and he was feeling the effects of missing a night's sleep. He was being nonsensical. Ray was fully recovered and had proved himself capable of riding any mount the stable could provide. He knew the way to town as well as Bodie himself did - and wouldn't take kindly to being searched out like a truant schoolboy. He eyed Jedediah thoughtfully before pouring himself some ale.

"You don't care for Ray overmuch, do you? Any particular reason?"

Jedediah made to speak, thought the better of it and then gained courage from another mouthful of ale. "Any number," he mumbled, fumbling for his clay pipe, then tucking it back out of sight.

"Smoke if you wish. Bertha's upstairs chivvying Polly Chegwidden about her duties. She'll be gone long enough to allow you a decent smoke. What reasons, Jedediah?"

"I'm not afeared of Bertha," Jedediah avowed, "it's just that she don' take kindly to pipe smoke in her kitchen. He's a trouble-maker."

"Ray? Don't be ridiculous."

"Have it your own way. But I ain't the only one to think so. He's allus underfoot when you least expect him, sneaking around, asking questions. Last week I found him snooping around your desk. He opened it smooth as you please."

His eyes narrowed in fury, Bodie stared at him in an icy silence.

"It's no use you glarin' at me like that, Master William. I know what I saw. I wouldn't set no store by it save for the fact I seen him open it with one of them fancy probes like what you use. And it weren't yourn, it were his own. Yesterday he nearly caught Tom Chegwidden and Ned Pollock on their way home, laden from the share-out. Tom was still sweating over that this morning and swearin' fit to bust."

"Ray was out at that time of night?"

"Aye, for all he might have told you different. At least the horses be getting exercised regular. Fine recompense, ain't it?" Jedediah spat into the flames before taking up a spill and relighting his pipe. "D'you reckon he's a Revenue man? He hangs around with Ross more than's natural."

Lips pursed, Bodie stared sightlessly at his booted foot, one hand cramped around the tankard he held.

Jedediah cleared his throat in an awkward way. "I didn't want to tell you this, but I don't have no choice. Some of the men have started to fear for their safety, especially after last night. "You've got to tell them something about him."

"Have I?" said Bodie with a dangerous calm. "Have I indeed. What do I owe those pox-ridden bastards that I haven't repaid a thousand-fold? If it wasn't for me they'd be worm's meat long since - or transported. Even Ross would have been able to catch them red-handed. The men will do as I tell them if they know what's good for them."

"Mebbe they will, for a time. But have a care, Master William. If he is a Revenue man he's no friend of yourn."

"Who isn't a friend of yours?" asked Doyle from the doorway. He pushed the door shut with his shoulder, still clasping waterlogged packages, which dripped onto the matting. He was very muddy.

Both men jumped.

"Did no one teach you to knock?" snapped Bodie. "Or do you imagine me undeserving of even the most minor courtesy?"

Setting down the parcels, Doyle removed his sodden hat, all trace of amusement wiped from his face. "I was guilty of forgetting I'm a guest in your house. My apologies. I had no intention of intruding."

Jedediah began to hope he might take umbrage and leave for good.

But Bodie had seen the quickly veiled expression of hurt in Doyle's eyes. "Don't be nonsensical," he said roughly. "You startled me. It must be this damned rain. There's so much work to be done outside. What have you got there? No, don't tell me. More canvas, paints and, possibly, some brushes."

Easing off a greatcoat which had doubled in weight as it absorbed the rain, Doyle gave a faint smile, although his expression was still wary. "Am I so predictable?"

"In some things," Bodie told him gently. "We were discussing Captain Ross when you came in."

Doyle pulled a face. "I came across him in town, running around in ever-decreasing circles. He's an imbecile. Claims he was this far," his finger and thumb indicated a tiny measure, "from capturing a band of cut-throats last night and that he winged one of the desperadoes himself before they vanished in front of his eyes. The army deserves better men than he for the task of rounding up smugglers."

"You disapprove of the gentlemen of the night - the free-traders?"

"Few of them are gentle when crossed," Doyle pointed out dryly, "and the practice of smuggling goods with the intention of evading excise duty is contrary to the law of the land."

Jedediah gave a derisive snort. "I haven't noticed you refusin' to drink the brandy you're offered, nor cutting the lace from those fancy shirts of yourn."

There was a wry twist to Doyle's mouth. "You're right, Jedediah. Now what are you trying to tell me?"

"That all the brandy in this, and every other house of consequence along the coast is smuggled," announced Bodie.

Jedediah choked on his ale.

Steaming gently as he warmed his hands at the fire, Doyle did not turn around. "It's the same in London," he admitted. "I care little for that. But there are those who would seek to trade in other matters. The secrets of others, for one."

"Not round these parts they don't," said Jedediah truculently. "You won't catch no one round these parts helpin' the enemy. One lad was taken by the press-gang when he went to Plymouth with his Da. It was a French bullet what finished him though, out in foreign parts."

"Will Simmons' oldest boy?"

Bodie gave Doyle a shrewd look. "You're well-informed."

Doyle paused in the middle of struggling out of his closely-fitting jacket. "So would you be if you'd been forced to dine with the Reverend Walker instead of contriving to slide out of it. I've rarely heard anyone prattle about so little for so long. He wished me to undertake a portrait of his eldest girl Lucinda."

"Will you do it?"

Doyle pulled off his second boot and glared at Jedediah, who had been watching his struggles with some amusement. "No I will not," he said tartly.

"Why? She's a fetching piece."

"And her father's been trying to catch a husband for her these last two seasons. I thank you, but no. I should be compromised in a trice."

"What, afraid of a country parson?" mocked Bodie.

"Just his wife and daughter. Though after the way he cross-examined me about my prospects..." Doyle unfastened the laces of his shirt.

Rain-clouds darkening the sky, the glow from the fire provided the only illumination. Bodie turned from fixing the lamp to see Doyle, dressed only in his breeches, his voluminous shirt hanging open from his shoulders, as he busied himself at the stove.

"What do you imagine you're about?" Bodie demanded, avoiding looking at the half-naked figure.

"Well, in the absence of volunteers," Doyle gave Jedediah a pointed glare, "I'm preparing water for a bath."

"I ain't carryin' water up all them stairs," growled Jedediah, sinking deeper onto his chair. "What d'you want another one for, you only had one Sunday?"

"And today is Wednesday." Doyle dragged the hip bath in front of the fire. "I'm cold, I'm tired, and I'm damned if I want to listen to you complaining any longer. I'll bathe down here. Besides, it's warmer," he admitted, hearing Bodie spluttering with laughter behind him.

"You're as bad as the Master here. He's always bathing. Unnatural, I calls it. But I suppose his stay in the B - "

"That will do." Bodie's voice cracked across the flow of Jedediah's speech.

Meeting the fury in his eyes, Jedediah fell silent, knowing he had spoken about a forbidden portion of Bodie's life that had only been referred to once, when the Master had been drunk.

Swallowing his curiosity, Doyle began to fill the tub and set more water to boil. The rain continued to pour down, lashing against the windows and once sending a small discharge of soot into the fire, making it hiss angrily.

"Likely the chimney needs sweepin'," remarked Jedediah gloomily, by way of a peace offering.

"Then arrange for it to be done," snapped Bodie before he stalked over to the far windows. Staring out of them, he cut out the other occupants of the room.

His pipe forgotten, Jedediah hauled himself from his chair to stand at Doyle's shoulder. "You'll be needing a change of linen," he said awkwardly. "D'you want me to get it?"

Doyle looked at him in surprise, followed his gaze to where Bodie stood and understood the reason for the offer. "Thank you. Who's responsible for keeping the tack-room in good order?"

"Me, of course."

"Then I suggest you give the task your full attention. My girth was half-severed. It gave completely as I came back along the cliff road. Fortunately I felt it go."

Despite Doyle's soft tone Jedediah became aware of the banked anger Doyle had concealed so successfully until now. "Cut? An' you believe I - "

"If I did I would hardly be talking to you now. No, I don't imagine it was your doing. I know you've no love for me but I can't imagine you'd stoop to attempting to murder me. It may not have been directed at me. I took out Challenger," Doyle admitted with a trace of guilt, lowering his voice even more so Bodie would not hear.

"Challenger?" At Doyle's gesture, Jedediah obediently quietened. "If you've gone and harmed the Master's favourite you can tell him so yourself. I'll have no part of it," he warned.

"He's unharmed, just disconcerted to have lost me so suddenly. John Joe is tending to him. He refused to let me help. The saddle's still out on the track. I had job enough with Challenger and the canvas. It was the last in stock."

"You're crazed. And I'm willin' to bet you kept a firm hold of that when you fell. Mad-brained, that's what you are. Any rate, no one's harmed. You've not told the Master. Mind tellin' me why?"

"And have him fussing every time I set foot out the door? I would rather not. Does he have any enemies who would attempt such a thing?"

"I wouldn't have said so, but then... Leave it with me to find out. I'd give a lot to know why you should care what happens to him. You fight like cat and dog for the most part." Jedediah dried up at Doyle's look of hauteur and held out a conciliatory hand. "I'll not see him harmed just to save your pride, or anything else about you, I'll tell you that straight."

Doyle gave a smile that took Jedediah aback. "Nor will I, so for the first time we find ourselves in accord. You were going to fetch me a change of clothing."

Jedediah took the rebuff in his stride. Against his better judgement he believed the younger man. "You want anything in particular?"

"Whatever comes to hand. We're not expecting guests for dinner, are we?" Doyle raised his voice and turned to include the silent man standing in the shadows.

There was no reply.

Watching Jedediah leave, Doyle strolled to where Bodie stood and rested a hand on his forearm. He was shocked by the tension he felt there. "What's amiss? Can I be of assistance?" he asked with concern.

His eyes bleak, Bodie refocused on the half-naked figure, Doyle's skin shaded umber in the glow from the lamp and fire. "Why should you suppose anything is wrong?" he demanded harshly, drawing away.

"Because, although as Jedediah has just pointed out, you and I habitually snap at each other, today you seem to be lacking your usual verve in our exchange. Is something troubling you?"

Bodie roused himself with a perceptible effort. "I'm just blue-devilled," he said with more warmth. "Truly. It will pass."

Doyle continued to watch him with concern. Placing his uninjured arm around the other man's shoulders, Bodie steered him back to the fire. "You're very wet," he said.

"And liable to become wetter," Doyle added as he emptied the last pan of boiling water into the bath.

"I could use something stronger than ale to drink. Will you join me in a brandy?"

It had little appeal on an empty stomach but Doyle accepted the offer.

"Have your bath. I'll bring a glass through to you. Enjoy your ablutions." Bodie made his escape, unable to face the thought of remaining to watch the other man in such an intimate moment.

Doyle peeled off the remainder of his damp clothing and sank with caution into the steaming water. His latest report was safely on its way to London, containing nothing that would interest Cowley. Depression flooded him. In the month since Cowley had left he had tried to discover what he could of Bodie's involvement in local smuggling and had come to the reluctant conclusion that his lack of success wasn't due to the fact there was nothing to discover.

It was as if there was a conspiracy of silence, and not merely amongst the villagers. Even the Reverend Walker and the Squire seemed to assume he was a party to Bodie's activities. Indeed, the Squire, with many a nudge to his still tender ribs, seemed to take it for granted that he was involved. Two bottles of port later and he had been no closer to discovering in what. But everything he heard pointed to Bodie as a focal point in whatever it was.

Hell, Doyle told himself irritably as he sank deeper into the tub, it was time to admit that Bodie wasn't a part of it, he was it: the organiser and leader. But of what exactly? Damn Cowley. He'd killed all chance of he and Bodie being able to meet as...

As what exactly? Friends? Dear God.

He should have stayed overnight in town, or taken up the Reverend's offer with the obliging Lucinda. She was a fetching piece. Only it wasn't her he wanted.

He began to soap himself vigorously, concentrating on washing away the mud acquired in his fall, but his body continued to respond to heated mental images. Reaching out for the pan at the side of the bath to rinse his head and shoulders, he gasped as the icy water flowed over his skin, but it had the desired effect on his errant flesh.

Only when he stood knee-deep in the cooling water did he appreciate that he had neglected to provide himself with a towel. Jedediah had yet to return with his change of raiment.

"Damn," he muttered with heart-felt irritation as the wind rattled the windows, sending draughts of cold air scurrying across the room. Bending his head, he wrung the excess moisture from his hair and found a large towel being thrust at him.

"Thanks," he mumbled, applying it first to his hair to prevent water from trickling down his back.

"It's no trouble," said Bertha serenely, eyeing him with unabashed appreciation.

The towel slipped from his slackened grasp to fall into the tub. "Bertha!" He forbade himself to sink into the water or grab the wet towel and made himself meet her eyes, trying to look unconcerned. He was defeated in seconds when she continued to study him openly.

"For Heaven's sake," he protested, laughing a little now. "Have a thought for my nerves. It isn't fitting," he added weakly.

"That it isn't," agreed Bodie from the doorway, unable to move as he eyed the beautiful, fire-lit body bared for him.

Relieved to have some support, Doyle swung around then realised his mistake and froze. "So much for privacy. There's no one else liable to appear, is there?"

Taking pity on him, Bertha removed the robe Bodie had taken from Jedediah when he met him in the hall and handed it to Doyle. Stepping from the tub, he shrugged into it and fastened it securely, trying not to appear to hurry.

"Give over, Master Ray," she chided, "an' me married these thirty-five years and more. Who do you suppose stripped and nursed you when you was ailing? I didn't see you worrying about what state you was in then."

Swooping on her, Doyle lifted her effortlessly out of the way. "You're a shameless hussy," he told her with severity as he began to drag the hip-bath to the door.

"That's as may be but you've no call to be timid as a maid. Your back ain't healin' as it should. Are you still using that salve I gave you?"

Engrossed in tipping bath water out of the door into the muddy yard, Doyle used the noise as an excuse not to hear her. Bertha patiently repeated herself.

Closing the door, Doyle gave her guilty look.

"I thought as much," she said with a grim satisfaction. "And why not pray?"

Doyle began to fidget under her severe gaze. "It isn't easy to apply unless you have arms of a length that would qualify you for a place in a stall at the fair," he said at last.

"And what's wrong with asking me to do it? Or Jedediah? Well, no," she conceded fairly. "Maybe he wouldn't be the one to ask. Master William, stop your laughing and take him upstairs. It's the salve in the blue pot. Keep rubbing until it's gone right into the skin," she instructed.

"Now?" Bodie asked plaintively, wishing he had remained in the study.

"Now," she insisted. "And there's no call for you to be drinking at this time of the day neither, what with my kitchen in this state and all."

Sensing she was but warming to her theme, Doyle edged towards the door.

"Dinner," she added ominously, "will be late."

"This is your doing," Bodie accused Doyle, refusing to let him pass until he had made his peace.

Giving him a speaking glance, Doyle drifted back across the kitchen to plant a placating kiss on Bertha's cheek. She pulled away from him.

"Just tell me what needs doing," he coaxed, "and I'll put it to rights."

Her mouth twitched before she smiled. She'd never been able to maintain her anger, particularly not in the face of such blatant charm. "Get along," she scolded him affectionately, "and leave me to get on in peace."

"Whoever did you complain about before I arrived?" Doyle teased.

"Master William, of course. There's little to choose between the pair of you for making work. Now get along, do."

Brandy glasses surreptitiously still in hand, they went up to Doyle's bedchamber.

Dressed in breeches and boots, Doyle glanced at his companion's face, trying to place his sense of familiarity with this complex man.

Bodie picked up the pot of salve. "If you turn around," he suggested, wanting this over with as quickly as possible.

Experiencing a curious reluctance, Doyle remained where he was, his shirt in hand, his fingers clenched over the lace. "I can manage very well by - "

"For pity's sake let's have done with it," muttered Bodie, placing a hand on his bare shoulder before he moved behind Doyle. "Seat yourself on this stool."

The salve was cool, which explained Doyle's initial flinch, but Bodie was aware that the tension knotting each muscle did not lessen as he rubbed in the sweetly scented ointment. Able to relax now his expression was hidden, Bodie concentrated on his task; lightly massaging the scarred tissue and smooth flesh around it, he was rewarded by feeling the knots in the muscles slowly ease.

Remembering to breathe occasionally, his head propped on his hands, Doyle let the skilled fingers take him where they would. He was aware of the touch to his toes, sensation stroking down his spine to centre in his groin. The silence was uneasy, spiked with tension and awareness of one another's sensuality.

"I had no idea Bertha had come in," Doyle said eventually, ashamed of his body's response to that light touch. "I did not hear the kitchen door open."

"It didn't. She came down the back stairway that leads through the pantry," Bodie told him.

Doyle was surprised into half-turning. "I didn't know there was a back stairway."

Bodie tossed the other man his shirt. "That should do for now. I'll call in on you tomorrow night to apply more. I believe the salve stops the healing flesh from pulling so much as it draws together. As for the house, it has a number of surprises. Haven't I shown you the priest-hole or cave yet?"

Fascinated, Doyle shook his head as he continued to dress, grateful for the subtle reduction of tension. Surely a guilty man would not be so free with his secrets? Knowing himself to be grasping at straws in an effort to establish Bodie's innocence rather than apply himself to the task of discovering the truth, he shrugged the knowledge aside and paused to rearrange his neckcloth. He turned from the mirror to find Bodie holding his jacket out for him, his manner as obsequious as the worst kind of manservant.

"If I ever require the services of a valet, be certain that you need not apply," Doyle informed him as he shrugged into the first sleeve.

Crushed, Bodie replaced the lid on the pot of salve. "After dinner, if you care for it, I'll take you on a guided tour of the house," he offered casually.

"At last Romance and Intrigue have entered my life." Doyle struck a dramatic pose in the doorway.

Bodie pushed him into the hall. "More like damp and dry-rot," he said prosaically.

As they made their way to the library each man was engrossed in his own, very different thoughts.



"How did you come to discover the priest-hole?" asked Doyle as he wandered down from the upper storey of the house. They had acquired a number of stains in their explorations; the upper floor was rarely used and the air smelt musty, dust hanging in the air and catching in the back of the throat.

Bodie turned on the stairs to give him a grin. "As you might have guessed, it was B