m i s s . w i n c h e s t e r ' s . u n s u i t a b l e . s u i t o r

Miss Winchester's Unsuitable Suitor
[by victoria p.]

Rating: Adult

Summary: In which Miss Samantha Winchester, in order to escape an unwanted suitor and reunite with her beloved brother (who has been at sea fighting Napoleon for the past four years), travels to London in the company of Mrs. Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Jo, and has a number of adventures.

Spoilers: none

Notes: AU in which Sam is and always has been a girl. Thanks to Fleur for all the encouragement, and to luzdeestrellas for handholding, cheerleading, and betaing above and beyond the call of duty. Written for the spn_harlequin challenge.

Word count: 17,850 words

Date: August 23, 2007

Margate, Kent, England - 1815

Sam stared down at the letter, which was dirty and creased and four months old, but it was from Dean, in his handwriting, which meant that he was alive, or he had been when he'd written it. She held the paper to her lips, closed her eyes and imagined him writing, hands moving gracefully over the page before he folded it and sealed it. It smelled of damp wool and the sea, and that reminded her of Dean, of the night he'd disappeared from the inn in Portsmouth four years ago.

"Do you need the smelling salts?" Jo asked. "You look as if your stays are too tight."

"Joanna Beth," Aunt Ellen said reprovingly.

Sam clutched the letter as if it were a lifeline. "It's from Dean. He was in Lisbon, but he should be in London soon. Or he's in London already, given how far astray this letter went." She stood, feeling the need to pace, skirts swirling around her ankles, and after a few turns about the room, she stopped in front of Aunt Ellen. "I must go to him." She needed to know he was safe. Perhaps he had found their father. There was so much she wanted to say to him, and none of it could be committed to paper.

"Samantha--"

Before she could finish, there was a knock on the door and Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper stuck her head in. "Mr. Iblis is calling, ma'am."

Sam tried to repress a shudder and Jo rolled her eyes. Mr. Iblis had become Sam's most persistent ("only," she would point out laughingly when Jo said this) suitor over the past few months. He had returned to England after a long stay on the continent, and had moved into the empty house next door about a year after Sam had arrived at the Harvelles'. He had wasted no time once he was settled in, and courted the vicar's beautiful daughter assiduously; though Jessica had not loved or wished to marry him, her family had pressed her into the engagement, saying it would be good for her and for them. Sam was convinced it had cost Jess her life.

She had died a year ago in a fire (a fire Sam was sure Iblis had had a hand in, if not set himself, though as of yet, she could prove nothing--she had only a strong feeling, tied to dreams of Jess dying in a fire--to go on), and everyone in the village had mourned with him. Jessica had been well-loved in Margate, and Sam had, perhaps, loved her best of all, though that had been a secret between the two of them, one she'd shared only with Dean in the long letters she'd written but never sent.

"Samantha?" Aunt Ellen said again, this time her voice rising in question.

Sam turned a pleading look on her aunt. "Must I see him?"

"He's been very kind to us, dear." Aunt Ellen's smile was strained, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and Sam knew she didn't like him either, but she had to live next door to him, while Sam would, hopefully, be going home to New York as soon as she and Dean were reunited.

Sam sighed in resignation. She knew her duty, even if she'd spent most of her life fighting against having to do it. "All right, Mrs. Porter, send him in."

Sam reseated herself in one of the uncomfortable straight-back chairs scattered around the room, rather than on the settee where he might sit next to her, and arranged her skirts neatly. She squared her shoulders, pinned a polite smile on her face, and prayed for this call to go quickly.

"My dear Mrs. Harvelle," Iblis said when Mrs. Porter showed him into the sitting room. He wasn't a very tall man, but he had presence; his dark hair was threaded with grey and his cheeks were rosy from the wind, and in his buff colored breeches and his dark blue morning coat, he looked every inch the country squire. Only on closer inspection could one see the lines of dissipation around his eyes, which were in some lights a curious amber color that reminded Sam of the fire that had consumed Jessica. "You and your lovely daughter are the very picture of health." Aunt Ellen and Jo both managed to smile politely and murmur greetings. "And you, Miss Winchester," he offered her the small bouquet of flowers he held in his hand, "you outshine even the loveliest of blooms from my garden."

Sam avoided the touch of his hand on hers and took the flowers with a murmured, "Thank you." She sneezed delicately at the lilacs. An unpleasant look flashed across Iblis's face, but then he smiled again.

"Miss Winchester," he reached out for her hand, but she had her handkerchief out now, and dabbed her nose in as ladylike a manner as she could. "Or may I call you Samantha?" He didn't give her the opportunity to deny his request, but continued, "In the past year, I have become most smitten by your charms." He slid gracefully to one knee and grabbed hold of her hand, disregarding the handkerchief. His skin was cool and dry, and Sam had to steel herself not to pull away. "Would you do me the singular honor of becoming my wife?"

Sam froze, trying to keep the smile from sliding off her face. "While I am conscious of the honor you do me," she began, glancing at Aunt Ellen, who looked as dismayed as Sam felt, "I'm afraid I must decline your offer." She swallowed, her mouth dry with inexplicable fear. "I've just had news of my brother, and I believe that once we are reunited, we'll be sailing back to America."

"I see." His eyes seemed to flash yellow for a moment, and she shivered. "You've made your home here in England for the past four years. Surely--"

"I have, and I have made many good friends here, but it is not home, Mr. Iblis, and I long for home." For Dean, but she dared not say that. He would want her to be strong now, to square her shoulders and hold back the shudder of revulsion she felt at the thought of being married to Iblis, of letting him put his hands on her person, and so she did.

"Are you so sure of your feelings, my dear? Perhaps with more time--"

"I regret any hurt feelings my answer may cause, but I cannot in good conscience allow you to hope when I know there isn't any to be had. I have always hoped to marry for love," she took a deep breath, tried to still the sick flutter of fear in her stomach, "and I do not love you." She attempted to withdraw her hand from his grasp, but his fingers tightened painfully around hers. "You are hurting me, sir," she said through gritted teeth. He pulled back as if he'd been burned and stood slowly, looming over her in a way that made her wish she had her favorite gun to hand.

"My deepest apologies, Miss Winchester." He stepped away, clasped his hands behind his back. "Is this about Miss Moore? My feelings for you are in no way meant to be disrespectful of her. I know you and she were close."

And I know you killed her, Sam thought, but she had no way to demonstrate his involvement, and the magistrate had dismissed her concerns repeatedly. "Miss Moore was my dear friend," she said instead. "And I miss her every day. But this has nothing to do with her." Sam had no trouble lying when the occasion demanded it, but she thought that even had she not believed him to be Jess's murderer, she would have felt the same. "I am sorry, Mr. Iblis, but I do not return your regard."

"You are resolved?"

She raised her chin and met his gaze in determination. "I am, sir."

He turned to look at Aunt Ellen. "Mrs. Harvelle, perhaps you can talk some sense into your niece?"

Before Aunt Ellen could respond, Sam said, "My brother is my guardian, not my aunt." She didn't add, And only until I turn twenty-one. She smiled at Aunt Ellen to soften her words before returning her attention to her erstwhile suitor. "And Dean would never force me into a marriage I did not want."

"Ah, yes, your brother." His eyes narrowed and his mouth curled in a sneer for a moment before smoothing out. Sam dug her nails into her palms, repressing the urge to claw his eyes out. "Returned from fighting the Corsican upstart, has he?"

"He has, Mr. Iblis, and we shall be going up to London soon to meet him." Aunt Ellen threw her a startled glance, but didn't contradict her.

Iblis also looked startled at this news, but recovered smoothly. "We shall be sad to lose your presence at the local assemblies," he said. "Three such lovely ladies as yourselves brighten up all our country dances." He turned back to Aunt Ellen then, and said, "I know you haven't traveled much since Mr. Harvelle went to his reward. If you don't think it too forward of me, allow me to lend you my carriage. It is well-sprung, and will make the trip to London much easier."

"Thank you," Aunt Ellen said. "That's very kind of you, sir. But won't you be needing it yourself?"

"I have guests arriving for a few days," he answered, "but after they depart, I can easily drive my curricle up to town. It's no inconvenience at all."

"Ah, well. Then we are much obliged, sir. Thank you for your kindness."

"It's the least I can do to get into your good graces," he said with a small smile Sam didn't like at all. "Perhaps I shall see you in London, then. I hope you will permit me to call on you."

"Of course, Mr. Iblis. We look forward to it," Aunt Ellen said, and led him out of the room.

Sam exhaled in relief and let her shoulders slump once the door was closed behind them.

"Don't worry," Jo said, giving her a conspiratorial grin. "I'm sure London will be bursting with eligible bachelors, and soon, Iblis will be but a bad memory."

Sam laughed weakly in response. The only eligible bachelor she was interested in was Dean, and the sooner she got to London and found him, the happier she would be.

***

Though she'd been surprised by Sam's announcement that they were going to London, Aunt Ellen was nothing if not efficient, and two days after Mr. Iblis's proposal, they were on the road.

When they passed the vicarage on the way out of town, Sam wondered if it was the last time she'd ever see it, if they would leave for home directly from London. She felt a pang of grief as they drove by the graveyard, knowing she might never visit Jessica's grave again, that someone else would have to tend it in her absence.

Even with that constant reminder of her loss, Sam would miss Margate, and the sea. She had been content here while Jessica was alive to share her interests and her feelings; they had spent long afternoons in conversation over books and music, politics and art and local gossip. She had told Jess a little about her unusual upbringing, and Jess hadn't held her lapses against her. She had teased Sam about some of her superstitions--the salt across her windowsills and the runes painted on the doorjambs--which she thought were just odd colonialisms, and Sam had been content to keep her unaware of the things that lurked in the darkness, which it had been her family's business to hunt since her mother's death.

Sam was not used to having anyone but Dean and their father to love, and Jess had made her feel like she could live in the world while they were gone, that she had room in her heart for someone else. Jess's presence had been a balm to her homesickness, and a joy to her heart. Together, they had tentatively learned to give and receive pleasure when they touched each other in ways Sam knew girls were not supposed to, but neither of them had cared about that when they were trading sweet kisses and fervent touches in Jess's tiny bedroom at the vicarage.

They had used to go on long walks to the shore, where Jess would set up her easel and paint, and Sam would lounge on a blanket and write long letters to Dean. Being able to watch the ocean had made her feel closer to him. Since he'd been taken by a press gang that night in Portsmouth, she'd gotten a handful of letters from him, but for every letter she'd sent, she'd written three more she'd kept to herself, unwilling to burden him with her problems when he was fighting for his life against Napoleon.

But now she would have more than letters that were out of date long before they ever reached her; she would have Dean with her again, and they could have a home together.

She leaned back against the well-cushioned seat of Mr. Iblis's carriage and closed her eyes, daydreaming of their reunion, of how surprised Dean would be to see her with her hair put up and her skirts let down, no longer the sixteen-year-old hoyden who'd followed him everywhere, demanding to know why she couldn't go to school, why she had to train with bow and gun and knife, only to be left behind and spend hours fretting while he and Dad went hunting.

Jo had been asleep for the last hour and Aunt Ellen's eyes were closed as well, and Sam was halfway to sleep herself, lulled by the easy gait of the horses, when a shot rang out in the darkness and a deep male voice yelled, "Stand and deliver!"

Sam bolted upright and fumbled for the pistol in her reticule as the coachman attempted to rein in the spooked horses.

The carriage drew to a skidding halt, juggling its occupants about. Aunt Ellen and Jo were pressed together in the corner, and Sam's skirts were in disarray when the door was flung open and the dim light of a lantern shone in, illuminating the muzzle of a large gun.

"Where's Iblis?" the highwayman demanded, his voice fierce and angry.

"Not here, as you can see," Sam replied. She swallowed hard and raised her own pistol. Her hands were steady, though her heart was racing. She had always preferred knives to guns, but her father had trained her in the use of both. "If you come any closer," she said, hoping the quaver in her voice wasn't audible, "I'll shoot."

"Bloody hell," the highwayman muttered, taken aback. "It's a coach full of amazons, armed to the teeth." He laughed, then, and the sound was unexpectedly warming. "And I thought I'd seen everything."

"You've seen enough, I think, to know we have nothing you want," Sam said.

"I wouldn't say that," the highwayman answered thoughtfully. "You're a pretty little chit behind that gun. I think I'd like a token of your favor. A kiss or a glove. Something to make the night worthwhile, since my true quarry has escaped." Aunt Ellen gasped at his effrontery, and he said, "Come on now, you have nothing to fear from me. I'll not hurt you."

Sam found it easy to believe him, though she had no good reason to. Possibly, she was being swayed by his accent, which reminded her of home, and she felt a small pang of homesickness at hearing it. She lowered her pistol, unbuttoned her glove and stripped it off. He reached out and took it, his gloved fingers brushing over hers slowly enough to make her belly flip with something that was not fear at all.

"Thank you kindly," he said, tucking the glove into his greatcoat. "I'm sorry to have bothered you ladies. Have a safe trip." He smiled, white teeth gleaming in the darkness, and bowed his head at Sam. "Perhaps we'll meet again, under more fortunate circumstances."

And then he was gone, riding off into the night on his great black horse.

Sam sank back against the seat cushions, strangely weak now that it was over.

"That was terribly exciting," Jo said.

Sam bit back an unkind remark about her habit of stating the obvious, and pulled the open door shut, hands trembling now that the danger was past.

Aunt Ellen rapped on the roof of the carriage, calling out, "Let's be on our way, then, Tom," and they were off again, the adventure over.

Sam curled up against the side of the coach and wondered if she'd see the highwayman again. She decided she would quite like to, as long as he didn't have a gun.

***

Once they were settled in London, Sam took herself off to the Admiralty to gather news of Dean. She knew his ship had returned safely to England, and that he was not on any casualty lists, but no one was able to tell her anything more, and the waiting was driving her mad.

After a week of fruitless inquiry, Sam was desperate for distraction. She couldn't go riding the way she had in the country, she hadn't any real acquaintance in London to call upon, and she'd been unable to sit calmly and sew the way Aunt Ellen did of an afternoon, with Jo reading the latest novel aloud. She fretted and paced and was altogether restless and out of sorts, and she felt terrible taking it out on Aunt Ellen, who had taken her in without complaint upon her arrival, based on nothing more than a childhood friendship between Sam's father and her late husband.

Eventually, Aunt Ellen had sent her out to Hatchards with instructions not to come back until she'd calmed her nerves.

Sam did find the bookshop soothing, the smell of paper and leather familiar as old friends, long-missed. She wandered the aisles and ran her fingers along the spines of books, stopping every once in a while to take one off the shelf and flip through it.

She was engrossed in a history of Egypt when she was jostled by another patron. She looked up from the page she was reading to see an older man with deep green eyes and a neatly trimmed white moustache.

"Mary?" he said, staring at her intently.

"I--My mother's name was Mary," she answered, startled into speaking of personal matters to a stranger. "Mary Gardiner. She died when I was a baby."

"My dear girl," he said, pulling a snowy linen handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose. "She was my daughter." He smiled sadly. "You resemble her greatly."

"I--I do?" Sam had only ever seen the miniature of their mother that their father had carried, and she didn't remember it very well. He had left it with Dean, before he'd disappeared, and Dean had been carrying it when he'd been snatched. Sam had always had the impression that Dean resembled their mother more closely than she did, though their father had rarely spoken of her, so she couldn't be sure.

"You do." He offered her his arm and she took it, signaling Betsy, Aunt Ellen's maid, to follow as they wandered through the shop. "She was a beautiful girl, my Mary. The belle of her season, you know. She had many suitors, and I'd set up a suitable match for her, but she only had eyes for that damned--pardon me, that dashed Winchester boy. If only he'd been--" He stopped abruptly. "You say she died when you were a baby? In childbed?"

"No, sir. In a fire. I was six months old." She shivered, remembering the visions of Jessica dying the same way.

"And your father never remarried?"

"No, sir," she repeated. "There was never anyone else for him but her." As a small child, she had sometimes asked Dean why they didn't have a mother, and Dean's answer was always that they had, and she had loved them very much, and that someday, they would avenge her death. It was not what she'd wanted to hear then, though now she felt she understood better than she ever had before. "He and Dean did their best for me--"

"Dean?"

"My brother. Oh, sir, can you help me find him?" She tightened her grip on his arm, aware suddenly that here was a possible ally in her search. She sketched out the details for him, ending with, "He was most recently on the Hotspur. I had a letter from him saying he would be in London, but I can't find him anywhere, and no one at the Admiralty has been able to help."

The man--her grandfather, she thought with amazement--squared his shoulders and cleared his throat with a soft rumble. "I believe I can, my dear. I do believe I can."

***

He'd asked Sam to call him "grandfather," but she felt awkward about it; he had disowned her mother, had refused to give his blessing to her parents' marriage, and though he'd repented of it--"Your father treated her well?" he'd asked abruptly, and Sam, startled, could only answer, "Always." It was only the truth as she knew it.--it still hung between them. She knew Dean would have had words to say about that, would have defended their father vehemently at every opportunity, but Sam had learned, over the past few years, to hold her tongue, that there were threats in the world that couldn't be fought with loud words, fists or salt, dangers that required a cunning mind, a honeyed tongue, and a willingness to wait for the right moment to strike, instead of wading in, swords drawn, at the first opportunity.

When Aunt Ellen discovered that Sam had met him, she was in alt. "Viscount Lisle has agreed to take you up? My dear Samantha, do you know how many doors he could open for you?"

"I'm only interested in the one that leads me to Dean," she answered with a sniff, before realizing how petulant and ungrateful she sounded. She slipped to her knees beside her aunt's chair, rested her head in her lap. Aunt Ellen petted her hair soothingly. "I'm so sorry, Aunt Ellen. I'm truly grateful for all you've done for me. I've told the viscount if he wishes to sponsor me in society, you and Jo must be included." She hugged Aunt Ellen impulsively, startling her. "I'm sure Jo will soon be overwhelmed with beaux."

Aunt Ellen eyed her askance. "And you, my dear?"

Sam swallowed hard, thinking of Jessica, the soft comfort of her hands and the warm press of her kisses. She thought of her brother, who had been her world for so long before he'd disappeared, and how desperately she wanted him back. And she thought of how nothing she wanted fit easily into the role prescribed for her by this world her grandfather was going to introduce her to. She let none of that show upon her face, however, and simply said, "I'm twenty years old, Aunt Ellen, and firmly on the shelf. I shan't marry."

"Stuff and nonsense. You're a beautiful girl and would make any man a fine wife. You are too attached to that brother of yours. He may have himself a wife even now, and then where will you be? No woman wants another woman around when she's setting up her household."

Sam froze for a moment, startled, stomach clenching in fear. While Dean had always been popular with the women they met on their travels--tavern wenches and house maids, lusty young widows and bored society matrons, all of whom were no better than they should be--Sam had never considered that he might take a wife. Not with the life they had been leading before he was taken.

"He'd have mentioned that in his letters, surely. And it's not like we have a household for her to rule." She shook her head, kept her voice steady, hoping to convince herself as well as her aunt. "No, Aunt, I think it will be a while before Dean gets leg-shackled."

"From what you tell me, he's a devil with the ladies."

Sam laughed. "Oh, yes. But not the kind of ladies you're thinking of."

"Samantha!" Aunt Ellen shook her head, pretending to be shocked at Sam's unruly tongue. "You'll have to learn to keep such plain speaking to yourself if you wish to succeed in society and not bring the ton's wrath down upon your grandfather's head." Sam heard the unspoken plea that she not ruin Jo's chances on the marriage mart as well.

Sam gave Aunt Ellen a kiss on the cheek. "Don't worry, dear auntie. I shall be on my best behavior." She curtseyed gracefully. "They shall all think me a milk and water miss with more hair than wit."

Aunt Ellen laughed, as well, and patted her cheek. "'To thine own self be true,'" she said. "And I am sure you will be fine."

Sam smiled at the contradiction inherent in her advice, though she didn't take much comfort in the source, and wished she could agree.

***

After a whirlwind week of shopping--an endless parade of modistes and milliners and glovers, interspersed with numerous trips to the Pantheon Bazaar to purchase ribbons and bows and fans--Sam was heartily sick and tired of the whole process, and if it weren't for the pleased looks on her grandfather's and Aunt Ellen's faces, and Jo's excitement about attending balls and routs and Venetian breakfasts, she would have complained vociferously. As it was, she checked in each day with Viscount Lisle to see if he had made any progress in finding Dean--he had engaged a Bow Street Runner, which Sam thought was a mistake, because any sign of law enforcement would send Dean deeper into hiding, but she couldn't find a way to explain that to the viscount without explaining everything else, and she didn't want to do that, not least because she was afraid he'd think her insane and send her to Bedlam if she did.

All the clothes were needed though, as invitations poured in. At first, it was only because she was the viscount's long-lost granddaughter returned to the bosom of the family (such as it was), an oddity, an amusement during the Little Season, now that celebrating Wellington's victory at Waterloo had become passé, but soon she and Jo both had full dance cards at every ball they attended, and a sitting room full of suitors each morning after--young bucks who liked to flirt, dandies who liked to be seen with the latest society darlings, and older men looking for mothers for their children. Even Aunt Ellen had admirers, for her figure was still neat and trim, and she had, Sam informed her, a very fine bosom indeed, which Sam leered at playfully, setting all three women laughing.

To Sam's dismay, Mr. Iblis had made his way to London, and he called on them often. He was always polite and never overstepped the bounds of propriety, but Sam could not feel comfortable in his presence, remembering Jess's fear of him, and the way she'd died. While Jo shared her aversion, many of the people she met in London seemed to think he was a good match for her, and weren't shy about telling her so. She smiled tightly and thanked them for their kind advice, and tried to avoid his company whenever she could. He sometimes sent her flowers and sweets, unexceptional gifts no one could quibble with, and offered to accompany her to the British Museum.

"I know this round of parties is wearing on you, my dear," he said, pressing her hand meaningfully. "You are far too serious-minded for such frivolity. It is one of the things I most admire about you."

She smiled and extricated her hand from his grip, thankful that the house was always full of people now, and her schedule full of exciting things to do. "I'm so sorry, sir," she said, trying to sound genuinely regretful, "but my grandfather is taking us to Kensington Gardens tomorrow, and we are going to a balloon ascension on Thursday. And then, of course, there is the al fresco luncheon at the Hartwells' on Friday, if the weather holds." She held her breath, hoping good manners would keep him from inviting himself along on any of their excursions. So far he had avoided meeting the viscount; she thought perhaps Iblis knew he would not stand up to his exacting scrutiny. "Perhaps some other time?"

Iblis looked put out, but his tone was amiable when he said, "Of course. You are quite the social butterfly now, Miss Winchester."

"La, sir, it's quite different from Margate, but I am enjoying it ever so much." If she'd had a fan, she'd have rapped him with it. If he hadn't inspired such loathing, she might have even enjoyed putting on the act of a more-hair-than-wit debutante to frustrate and confound him. As it was, she hoped her continued disinterest would deter him until she and Dean were reunited.

"If you would consent to be my wife, I could make sure you never had to leave London," he said in a low, urgent voice, reaching for her hand again. She was spared the necessity of refusing him yet again when Percy Hampton, one of her distant cousins according to the viscount, joined them on the settee. With a look that was more irate than lover-like, Mr. Iblis took his leave.

***

The days passed in a whirl of social events, and they provided a needed distraction for Sam, who was wearing herself thin with worry. Viscount Lisle had not had any more luck tracking Dean down than Sam herself had, and she was becoming desperate. She had been in London almost a month, with no news of her brother, and she was rapidly growing tired of the social whirl she'd been thrust into upon making her grandfather's acquaintance.

She went riding with him sometimes in the morning, the air cool and the sky grey, and he patted her hand and assured her that they would find Dean, that it must be pressing business keeping him from her, and she told herself it must be, that he was not lolling about in the fleshpots of London without a thought for her well-being, though it would be like him to spend his nights visiting the brothels and gaming hells she was not supposed to know existed, rather than attending to his sister at the various social events she was now frequenting.

Tonight, they were to attend a masquerade, though Aunt Ellen had reservations about the appropriateness of the thing, and had voiced them several times. The viscount was not accompanying them, and Aunt Ellen had warned Sam and Jo both to be wary of the men they danced with, that masquerades had a reputation for all manner of licentiousness and wanton behavior. Sam and Jo had grinned, sure they could take care of themselves and any too-forward suitors they encountered, and excited about the possibility of illicit romance.

Jo had chosen a shepherdess costume, ruffles spilling like sea foam down the skirt of her gown. She brandished her crook with a wide grin. "Don't worry, Mama," she said. "My virtue is well-defended."

Aunt Ellen had allowed herself to be convinced to go as Queen Elizabeth, her hair tucked beneath a curly red wig and her dress sporting a magnificent lace ruff and low décolletage to show her fine bosom at its best.

Sam was dressed as Artemis, a simple white Grecian-style gown draping her body and a silver, antlered mask gracing her face. Her hair was braided into a crown and bedecked with silver clips, each of which bore a silver moon in a different phase. She carried a small bow and a quiver of arrows, and slipped a small silver knife into her garter. When she thought of the pistol in her reticule, she smiled, remembering the highwayman she'd favored with a glove. She wondered if she'd ever see him again, and how she would know if she did. She fastened the light cloak she'd chosen to go with the dress--the weather had been unusually warm all month--her fingers lingering over the half-moon shaped clasp that went perfectly with her costume.

"Stop woolgathering, Sam, and come along," Jo said impatiently. "I don't want to miss any of it."

Sam pushed aside thoughts of the highwayman and hurried to join them.

***

Sam was fanning herself after a vigorous country dance with a young man dressed as Romeo, waiting for him to bring her a glass of champagne, when the orchestra struck up a waltz. She grinned as Jo twirled by in the arms of Lord Ashburn, her most favored beau, his long blond hair tied back in a queue identifying him even though he was masked and dressed as Robin Hood.

In her peripheral vision, Sam could see a tall man in a black domino and mask approaching her purposefully, and she felt a small frisson of anticipation. His walk was confident, swaggering, though that could have been because he was bowlegged (she knew she wasn't supposed to notice that, but she couldn't help it--it reminded her of Dean), and he actually kissed her hand when he raised it to his lips, instead of simply bowing over it, as most of the men she'd met did. He had a finely sculpted mouth and a strong jaw, which was dusted with freckles, and she felt a flutter of attraction low in her belly as he swept her onto the dance floor without a word.

She tried to think of something witty to say, but the heat of his hand on her through the thin material of her dress was making it hard to gather her thoughts. The dance floor was crowded, and he pulled her closer than was proper as they executed a rather dizzying turn. They were pressed together from chest to knee, and if the heat of his hand on her back had been distraction, the heat of his body flush against hers was breathtaking.

"This is most improper," she said, her voice barely a whisper, her lips scandalously close to his ear as he leaned in to hear her.

"You're a goddess; what do you care about propriety?" he answered, his voice low and teasing, the challenge in it almost as heady as his touch. His accent was familiar, a reminder of the home she missed so desperately, and she let herself lean into him, though she knew she shouldn't.

"Aren't you afraid I'll smite you? Goddesses are not to be trifled with," she said, though it was hard to be haughty while his touch left her breathless.

He grinned as if he knew the effect he was having. "I'll take my chances."

"You're reckless."

"You're worth it."

The words sent a pleasant shiver down her spine and wet heat rushing between her legs. She swallowed hard, trying to regain her equilibrium. He whirled her into another series of dizzying turns, and then they were out on the balcony, the night air cool after the heat of the crowded ballroom, but still unexpectedly warm for late September. Before she could protest, she was pressed back against the stone balustrade and his mouth was covering hers. His tongue was thick and hot in her mouth, and she clung to him, startled at first, but willing--eager--to kiss him back, to cling to his shoulders and let him touch her, his large, strong hands roaming over her body, warm through the silk of her gown. He cupped her breasts, and she arched into the touch, aching for it. He laughed against her mouth, then slid his lips up her jaw. She tipped her head back to give him better access, unprepared for the jolt of pleasure she felt when he used his teeth to nip gently at the sensitive spot just below her ear, while his thumbs flicked at her peaked nipples.

He had one strong, black-clad thigh between her legs, and one of his hands held steady on her hip while the other found its way up under her skirt to slide along her leg, warm through the silk of her stocking. The brush of callused fingers on the bare skin of her thigh made her gasp and cling to him, legs parting easily. She knew she should be ashamed, outraged--should insist he unhand her posthaste, but she longed for him to continue, need and pleasure making her wanton.

He found the knife sheathed in her garter and eased back, laughing. His mask made his expression difficult to read, but his mouth was slick and red from their kisses, and his voice was full of mirth when he said, "I admire a woman who takes her costuming seriously." He pulled his hand away, and she gave an involuntary whimper at the loss of his touch. "We've been missing from the ballroom too long," he said, giving her a quick kiss. "But say you'll meet me in the morning, at the Serpentine, and we can continue our... conversation."

She could hear the strains of a quadrille over the loud thrum of blood in her ears, and knew that he was correct--Aunt Ellen was probably scanning the ballroom for her this very moment--and she knew it was wrong to agree to a secret assignation with a masked stranger, but the wave of longing she felt when he touched her overwhelmed good sense.

"I will meet you at nine," she answered breathlessly. "How will I know it's you?"

"You'll know," he said, grinning. He kissed her hand again and said, "Return to the ballroom. Say you felt faint and needed fresh air if anyone questions you."

"You--"

"They mustn't see us return together."

"Oh. Of course." Her wits were addled by his caresses and kisses, and he preened as if he knew.

"I'll see you in the morning." He squeezed her hand meaningfully, and she chose, perhaps foolishly, to believe that she was more than a moment's dalliance to him.

"I look forward to it," she murmured, pressing a hand to her chest as if that would still the rapid beating of her heart. She took a few deep breaths, straightened her skirts, and swept back into the ballroom.

***

Sam found it difficult to sleep that night, her thoughts full of the mysterious stranger she'd agreed to meet and her body still aching with the sensations he'd engendered. She slipped a hand under her shift, touching her breasts the way he had, pleasure arcing through her as she did. She hadn't been touched by anyone since Jess died, and she missed it--her own hands were merely adequate, lacking the urgency and excitement of knowing someone else truly wanted her and wanted to please her, making her want to please them in return. She knew she should never have touched Jess or allowed Jess to touch her, that proper ladies endured the marital act rather than enjoyed it, and certainly did not engage in carnal relations with each other; most assuredly she knew that she should not have allowed a masked stranger to put his hand under her skirt. She would be labeled fast, would tarnish Jo's and Aunt Ellen's reputations as well, but all those concerns had disappeared when he touched her. She had never been a proper lady. Her upbringing had seen to that.

She teased at her peaked nipples with one hand and slid the other down over the ticklish skin of her belly before curling her fingers into the wet heat between her thighs, imagining instead the long, blunt fingers of her mysterious stranger. She rubbed at the slick sensitive flesh, gasping quietly for breath as the delicious tension built inside of her. She recalled the passionate kisses they'd shared, the thick heat of his tongue in her mouth, and the hard strength of his well-muscled thigh between hers. She knew she was close to the breaking point, and without conscious thought, she filled in the man's masked features with Dean's, and came shuddering against her own hand, pleasure rushing through her in waves.

When she was done, she turned on her side and pressed her flushed and heated face to the cool linen of her pillow. She was not shocked, not anymore, by the turn her thoughts had taken. Even before Dean had been taken from her, she had begun having these feelings towards him, inappropriate as they were. They had spent their childhood sleeping in the same bed, curled up like littermates waiting for their father to return from hunting, from his endless search for the man who'd killed their mother, and for a long time, Dean was her whole world.

When Dean was sixteen, their father had begun taking them with him; Sam had grown used to hiding in trees or behind whatever broken down old carriage they were using at the time, gun in hand, the last line of protection should Dad and Dean be unable to handle their prey.

She had longed, then, for the quiet normal life she saw in the towns they passed through--the life that belonged to girls who would learn to tat and sew, to manage household accounts and bear children for their husbands, who would be allowed to have interests other than hunting and weaponry, who would learn to dance and paint and play the pianoforte. All the things she had now, and which meant nothing without Dean by her side.

Jess had eased the ache of Dean's absence the way nothing else had, and then she was gone, dead in the manner Sam had dreamt of for weeks before it happened, amid fire and blood and fear, the scent of sulfur lingering in the air.

Dean was all she had left, and his absence was a huge empty space inside her, and not even an illicit liaison with a masked stranger was going to change that.

***

In the morning, Sam was too tense to eat breakfast. She drank the cup of fine Belgian chocolate Betsy brought her upon waking, and tried to calm herself down; her hands trembled as she buttoned up the front of her bottle green riding habit. She brushed her hair and twisted it up into a knot--it really was most impractical to wear it so long, but she was vain enough to be flattered into keeping it whenever she took the idea into her head to cut it off--and shoved a pair of clips into it to keep it in place before pinning her stylish shako hat on. The habit was also of military cut, with a touch of gold braid at the shoulder, and she thought again of Dean, fighting for so long; she prayed he had come through it unscathed.

She slipped a knife into the sheath in her boot and made sure her pistol was in her reticule, even though she didn't believe her mysterious suitor meant her any harm. In fact, when the groom saddled a horse for himself, she waved him off.

"I'm fine, Jem. I'll be back shortly," she said when he tossed her into the saddle. "No need to concern yourself," she added when he made to follow.

"Miss, you're not supposed to ride out alone. Mrs. Harvelle would have my hide--"

"I'll take the blame should she find out," Sam assured him. "I'm just going to the park. If I'm not back in half an hour, then you may come after me." She urged her horse into a trot before he could respond. She felt a pang for the poor man--he was only trying to do his job, and she really wasn't supposed to ride without a groom--but she could take care of herself, and she needed to keep her secret.

She forced herself not to race to the park, to enjoy the cool autumn morning, the endless blue of the sky and the leaves on the trees turning brilliant red and gold.

He was there when she arrived, staring out at the water, hands on his hips, his shoulders broad in a dark blue morning coat, his hair glinting like copper in the sunlight, and she knew him. Perhaps she had always known, on some level, and that's why she'd succumbed so easily to his charms.

She slid down off her horse before he could help her and flung herself into his arms. "Dean," she gasped, and kissed him full on the mouth.

He kissed her back, tongue hot and thick in her mouth, tasting of morning coffee and a million promises only he could make, his hands cupping her face gently, calluses rough against her skin, so different from the softness of his mouth.

Then his hands slid down to grip her shoulders and he pushed her away. He shook her, his eyes wide and wild. "Sammy."

"I believe we had an appointment this morning," she said with a smile, reaching up to touch his face, wanting to map the new lines around his mouth and eyes, to relearn the constellations of freckles dotting his skin under his faded seafarer's tan. "I hoped you had more on your mind than a brief liaison."

He caught her hand, turned to press his lips to her palm. "Where's your groom? You came to meet a strange man alone?"

She tossed her head defiantly. "I have my pistol and my knife. Which you've seen recently, and you, of all people, should know just how well trained to wield them I am. But I knew you wouldn't hurt me."

"The hell you did!" He dropped her hand. "You know better than this, Sam. You let me--We--Oh, God." He turned away from her, stricken.

She felt as though he'd punched her. "You didn't know?"

"How would I know? When I saw you last, you were--you were my little sister, with your ridiculous hair and your schoolroom pinafores and the ability to pass as a boy. Not--" He waved a hand up and down. "This."

She moved so he would have to face her. "Do I not please you?"

"Please me? Aye." He shook his head. "Sam, that's not a question for brothers and sisters. You please me far too well."

"Then I am pleased." She stepped closer, close enough to feel his breath on her skin. "You are well and safe from Napoleon's army and the British Navy." She moved closer still, embracing him with all the fervor of their long separation. His arms encircled her, and she felt truly safe for the first time since that awful night he'd gone missing, when she'd rushed down to the parlor in the morning, wondering why he'd not come back. It was not unusual for him to slip in late after dalliance, smelling of some society lady or tavern wench, and making Sam's stomach clench in jealousy, but since their father had gone missing, he'd never left her alone for the whole night.

The innkeeper had been unable to help, but one of the ostlers had seen the press gang make off with two or three men from the inn. All Sam had had was Ellen Harvelle's address and a small store of emergency money, all of which had gone to getting her onto a mail coach to Margate. It was a long, slow ride with many stops and starts, and she hadn't been sure what her reception would be at the end of it, two days later. She'd arrived on the Harvelles' doorstep keenly aware that she was dirty and alone and unknown to Mrs. Harvelle. Dean had had the letter of introduction in his coat pocket when he was taken. She had felt truly alone for the first time in her life, and the Harvelles had eased that pain.

But now she and Dean were together again, and she silently vowed to never let him go.

She buried her face against his chest and breathed him in, the scent of sweat and leather and the sea still clinging to him. Her voice was muffled when she said, "I didn't get your letter until a month ago. I've been searching for you this whole time. Why didn't you write with your direction once you'd reached London? What have you been doing?"

He rubbed her back with one hand, the other coming up to cup the nape of her neck. "I've found the man who killed Mom and Dad."

"Dad?"

"I'm sorry, Sammy. He was gone before we ever set foot in England."

She'd thought she'd prepared herself for this loss, had come to accept it when so much time had passed without word, and it was easier to spend all her considerable energy and hope on Dean, but it struck her painfully. She stifled a sob, tried to compose her features before she raised her head to look at him.

"Oh."

He cupped her cheek gently. "Yes. But I know who did it now, and as soon as I'm able to get near him, the coward, I've a bullet with his name on it."

"You have to let me help you." It was easier to be outraged, vengeful, than sad, and Sam took refuge in anger.

Dean shook his head. "It's not safe. That's why I didn't write. I don't want this touching you."

"It already touches me. They were my parents, too." She covered his hand with hers, took a breath and tried to regain some equilibrium. "I met Mom's father. He's been very kind to me. He has many resources, has opened many doors." She smiled fondly and shook her head. "He set a Bow Street Runner to find you. I tried to tell him it wouldn't work, but I couldn't very well explain why."

He laughed. "No, I'll wager you couldn't. It's good to know that's what that was about, though. I was having a damned hard time keeping the bastard off my trail. Didn't leave much time for revenge." He took her hand, tucked it under his arm, and led her towards the water. They walked in silence for a few moments. The park was empty of all but a few governesses and their charges, who ran through the grass with hoops and balls. "He brought you to London?"

"No, Aunt Ellen brought me to London, as soon as I got your last letter. I met him in Hatchards. But he has presented me, and because I asked, Jo, to society."

"And he approved your attendance at last night's masquerade?"

"The Walkers are an old, respected family," she answered defensively.

"And are you always so fast?"

She shivered at the low growl in his voice, wanted to hear more of it. "Jealous?"

And got her wish. "Dammit, Samantha."

"I have a suitor, you know."

He stopped, and she could feel the muscles in his arm tense. "Do you love him?"

"I hate him!" It was a relief to let her emotions show, to not have to hide them the way a proper lady should, to not have to be on her best behavior as she was with Aunt Ellen or Viscount Lisle or society. "He's positively vile. I would rather die than marry him." She took a deep breath. "And I think he killed Jessica."

"Your friend? The one who died in a fire?"

"Yes. I think she died like Mom." She rushed on before he could interrupt again, trying to get it all out. "I know it sounds mad, but for weeks before it happened, I had dreams of fire and blood, and that's how she died, Dean. Just as I saw it." Dean went still, and for a moment, the only sound she could hear was the rasp of his breathing. A bird chirped overhead, and in the distance, a governess reprimanded a little boy for going too close to the water.

"Have you had any other dreams of this sort?"

"Of fire?"

He huffed impatiently. "Of things that have come true."

"No, but--" She let go of his arm, walked a few paces. "She meant a great deal to me. I loved her very much."

The reminder of that grief, with the fresh sorrow of their father's passing, was almost too much to bear. She took another deep breath, forced it past the lump in her throat. He hugged her again, wrapped his arms tight around her and pressed his lips to her temple. She clung to him, wishing he would never let go.

"She was betrothed to the neighbor?" he asked when she finally released him. "Iblis?" There was something hard in his voice when he said the name.

Her own voice was fierce in response. "Yes."

"And you were in his carriage."

"How did you--" She stopped when he pulled her glove from his pocket. "Dean?" It was a question, but she didn't really need an answer. It made a ridiculous amount of sense, really, when she thought about it.

"Iblis is the man who killed our parents." His hand wrapped around her wrist tight enough to make her gasp. He eased off at the pained sound, but his voice was no less tense. "Why were you in his carriage that night?"

"He wishes to marry me. He lent it to us for the trip to London, thinking to get into Aunt Ellen's good graces after I refused him."

"Son of a bitch."

***

Aunt Ellen and Jo were just sitting down to breakfast when Sam and Dean arrived back at the house. Jo stared at him, starry-eyed, while Aunt Ellen peppered him with questions, which he answered with good grace, in between eating a substantial breakfast.

"You set a fine table, Mrs. Harvelle," he said when he was finally done. "And I appreciate everything you've done for Sammy."

"It was my pleasure, Mr. Winchester. Your father was a good friend to my dear William when they were young," Aunt Ellen replied. "And Samantha has been a joy to have around."

Dean smiled fondly at her, and Sam felt her heart might burst with love of him.

"Aunt Ellen welcomed me like a long lost child," Sam said, beaming at them both. She had treated Sam like a second daughter, and Jo had been delighted to have a sister to share secrets with. It had been so strange and yet so wonderful to have a woman's influence in her life for the first time that Sam had let herself be comforted, let herself believe that her separation from Dean would be brief. "I don't know what I'd have done without Aunt Ellen and Jo," she said. "They have been kindness itself." She reached out and squeezed Dean's hand. "And now that you're back, we are a family again." She knew, from his letters, that that was Dean's dearest wish.

They dined en famille that night, and Dean told them some stories--suitable for company, of course--of serving at sea. Sam resolved to question him later about the things he didn't talk about.

To that end, after everyone had gone to bed, she lit her candle and slipped along the corridor to the bedroom Aunt Ellen had assigned him. She knocked once at the heavy oak door, and then opened it, surprised it was unlocked.

Dean woke at her entrance, knife in his hand, his bare chest smooth and tanned in the flickering candlelight. She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the flare of heat in her belly.

"I should have known," he said, grinning.

She set the candle on the night table and climbed up onto the bed beside him. "Yes," she answered. "You should have."

"You shouldn't be in here, you know. Your reputation could be compromised."

She frowned at him, though she didn't believe he was serious. "Stuff and nonsense. You're my brother, and we are very affectionate. Anyone who thinks otherwise is evil and low-minded, and we shan't pay them any heed."

"Affectionate?" He shifted, displacing the covers, and before he rearranged them, she could see the dark line of hair on his belly.

She laughed, though her mouth was dry, and even to her own ears it had a hysterical edge. "We have been separated for four years, and have just learned that we are alone in the world, the last of our family. I feel our closeness is to be commended." She lifted the sheets and slid beneath them, curling towards him.

"Sam--"

She pouted. "I only wanted to know about Dad."

Dean sighed and shifted again, putting an arm around her. She rested her head against his chest, closed her eyes and breathed him in. She tried to ignore the fact that he wasn't wearing a nightshirt, that her cheek rested upon warm, bare skin, and that his hip and thigh were pressed up against hers, only the thin lawn of her nightgown between them.

"I don't know how he discovered that Iblis was our man, but he'd left his journal with a man named Robert Singer, who contacted me via a solicitor. When I arrived in London--not all that long before you, actually--the solicitor arranged a meeting and Mr. Singer gave me the journal." She waited patiently for him to tell the story--she knew how important that journal had been to their father, and how much it must have meant to Dean to have it, and how painful it must have been to receive it in such a way, to know that Dad was dead, and had been for years.

"Mr. Singer said that there was nothing anyone could have done--Dad was set upon by brigands in Iblis's employ. Apparently, they had been rivals for Mom's hand during her season."

Sam gasped at this revelation, but recalled the viscount's words about their mother's beauty and popularity.

"I know," Dean said. "It's odd to think a failed romance is at the root of our family's tragedy, but there it is. Iblis had had the viscount's approval, but Mom chose to run away with Dad to Gretna, and be married over the anvil."

"No wonder Iblis makes himself scarce whenever Viscount Lisle is around."

"He's a coward, but he can call upon dark powers when he needs to. Dad thought that killing Mom was not just vengeance for her slighting him, but payment to the demons with which he deals. If he killed Jessica--" His arm tightened around her, drawing her close, as he voiced the conclusion she had just come to herself. "He means to kill you next, Sammy. That must be why he's courting you. We have to get you somewhere safe."

"If he's using dark magic, then there is no safe place, Dean. We need to kill him before he can hurt anyone else." She laid a hand over his heart, thumb brushing at the amulet he wore against his skin, protection older even than the cross she wore. "You must let me help you."

"Sam--"

"I can send him a note to meet me, perhaps indicate that I've changed my mind and am now amenable to his suit." She rolled over onto her side so she could see his face more easily and read his reaction. "And you could be there waiting."

His mouth moved as if he were tasting something disgusting. "We're not using you as bait. It's too dangerous."

"It's already dangerous, and who else can we use?" She knew he wouldn't want to put anyone else in danger, either, and she pressed her advantage. "He wants me, for whatever reason, and the opportunity to have me will draw him out more quickly than anything else we come up with, even if we argue all night." She held his gaze, tried to will him into agreeing with her.

"I don't like it."

She huffed in exasperation. "Of course you don't. I don't either, but we have to stop him, and this is our best hope." She touched his cheek gently. "We could finish this, Dean, and be done with vengeance at last. Dad could have some peace, and so could we."

"Peace," he said, as if the word were strange in his mouth. She realized yet again that he'd been raised to be a soldier in their father's personal war since the day their mother died, long before the British Navy had got hold of him.

"You deserve it," she said. "Peace and quiet and the freedom to do what we will. You'd have no orders to follow but those of your tailor and valet on the cut of your coat and set of your cravat."

He cupped her chin, ran his thumb over the arch of her cheek, and she shivered at the touch. "I haven't a valet."

"Then you could follow my orders." She meant it as a joke, but her voice quivered with suppressed emotion.

"Sam." His voice was low and pleading, and his thumb slid over her mouth. She parted her lips to moisten them, and touched the tip of her tongue to the pad of his finger, tasting salt and skin. "Sam," he said again, a whisper this time, and when he exerted the slightest bit of pressure, she leaned in to kiss him.

It was a softer, more tentative kiss than the ones they had shared on the balcony at the masquerade, and it made her chest ache with love and need for him. She whimpered when he pulled away, and cupped his face to draw him close again.

"Dean," she whispered against his lips, knowing it wasn't fair and asking anyway, "please?"

He groaned into her mouth, rolled onto his side, and with her chemise twisted around her hips, she could feel every inch of him pressed against her. He stroked a hand down her neck, fingers trailing over her clavicle, then brushing against the curve of her breast, every touch setting her body aflame.

She wrapped her arms around him, let her fingers play in the soft hair at his nape, then touched his shoulders, his back, counting the knobs of his spine; she found a scar below his ribs, an injury he hadn't mentioned, and she wondered vaguely, with the part of her brain still capable of thinking, when it had happened, and how. Then his kisses grew hungrier, more urgent, as if he were drowning, and she possessed the only air he could reach, and she stopped thinking altogether.

The ache between her legs became unbearable, and she took his hand and placed it there, curling her fingers over his to stroke at her slick, warm flesh. When he pulled back, a question on his face, she arched into the touch, moaning softly, needy and unashamed. "Dean, please." He pressed her onto her back and continued to kiss her face and neck as he stroked her to new heights.

His hands were rougher, his fingers blunter, than she was used to, but he knew what he was about, his touches deft and focused, making the tension rise until it broke over her in waves of ecstasy. He swallowed down her hoarse cry with a kiss, and kept touching her until she was limp and sleepy from pleasure.

He brought his hand up and licked his fingers clean, and she blushed, then, as she hadn't yet, at the blatant sensuality of the gesture. He paused, gaze locked with hers, and his expression, which had been hot and hungry, became shuttered.

"You should go," he said, looking away.

"Dean, please," she said a third time, but it was no charm.

"We shouldn't have done that, and you should go now before we do anything else." His voice was flat.

She clung to his arm, pleading. "But I want to, with you."

"I'm your brother."

"I'm well aware of that."

"It's wrong, Sam. You know that."

"I know it's not unheard of, despite what society says. Byron and his half-sister--"

"Byron was run out of the country for that, Sammy. He's not someone you should be holding up as an example of proper behavior." All pretense of neutrality was gone; he sounded angry now, which meant he was afraid, or ashamed, and she hated that it was because of her. She sought refuge in anger, as well.

"Since when do you care about propriety?"

"Since I became responsible for you, and your reputation, and by extension, our family's reputation. And also that of the Harvelles. Do you want to repay their kindness to us with scandal and shame?"

"There's no shame in it," she said, aiming for haughty and coming off petulant.

"You're my sister," he answered in a tone dripping with the condescension she'd lacked.

"I think we've already covered that." She swung her legs out of the bed and stood, letting her twisted nightgown fall loose to cover her heated, sticky skin. "Since it seems you'd prefer the company of your own hand to mine, I wish you well of it. Have a good night, Dean." She held her head high as she marched from the room, forcing herself not to turn back to see if he was regretting his rejection of her. She waited until she was in her own bed to let the tears fall.

***

Sam woke later than usual the next morning, the result of staring up at the ceiling for most of the night after her tears had finally run dry. She had the headache, and when she looked at her reflection as she dressed, her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed.

When she went down to breakfast, there was a note from Dean waiting for her. Gone after Iblis. Back soon. Do not follow. Before Aunt Ellen or Jo could stop her, she rushed out to the stables.

"Did my brother say where he was headed?" she demanded of the groom.

"He said something about Claridge's," the groom said. Sam nodded; Iblis had mentioned that he'd taken rooms there for the Little Season. "And, begging your pardon, miss, he said to tell you not to follow."

"Called me an interfering baggage or some such?" she asked, amused in spite of herself.

The groom blushed. "He told me not to pass that bit on."

"I'll wager he did." She laughed, but sobered quickly. "Have my horse ready, Jem. I'll be down in twenty minutes."

"But, miss--"

She went back into the house before he could finish the sentence. She tore out of her morning dress and ransacked her wardrobe for the clothes she'd arrived with four years ago. She had often worn boy's clothing to hunt back home, and she had packed it as a precautionary measure, though Dean had seemed to think she was safer dressed as a schoolroom chit than a boy onboard ship.

Jo came in and sat on her bed while she was lacing up her breeches. "Sam, what are you doing?"

"Dean has proof that Iblis murdered our parents, and possibly Jessica, too. He thinks I may be next, and he's gone off to Claridge's to challenge him to a duel. I must go and help him."

Even though Jo had proved an adventurous soul during their acquaintance, Sam was afraid this might be too shocking even for her, but she proved herself made of sterner stuff than Sam could have hoped.

"Before you go on off on a wild goose chase, you should know that Iblis has sent you a note." She handed Sam the neatly folded square of paper, and Sam broke the wax seal and read it breathlessly.

"He's gone down to Margate. Family emergency, he says, and he wishes us well in his absence. He expects to be back within the fortnight."

"I thought he didn't have any family."

"He doesn't, the coward! He knows Dean is after him and he's run like the cur that he is. I must go after him." She stopped and stared at herself in the mirror--her face was flushed and her hair was tumbling out of its pins. She opened the top drawer of the vanity and found a pair of scissors, then plucked the useless pins from her hair. She shook it out, let it fall down her back.

"It's not safe for you to go alone," Jo said. "Why don't you wait for Dean to return--What in blazes are you doing?"

Sam snipped relentlessly, ignoring the pangs of what felt suspiciously like sadness as long locks of her hair dropped to the floor.

"If I'm to be disguised as a boy, I have to look the part. I can't just tuck my hair under a hat and hope for the best."

"This could be a trap, Sam. You should wait for Dean--"

Sam quashed her own misgivings to that effect, and also the memory of Dean telling her not to bring scandal to the Harvelles, who had opened their home to her when she'd had nowhere else to turn. "Who knows how long he will be? Or when he'll be back?" She continued cutting until the tips of her hair brushed her jaw. She swallowed hard against the loss. It was stupid to be upset by such a trifling thing as hair. It would grow back soon enough. "Tell him where I've gone, and that he should follow posthaste. If he returns quickly, perhaps we will meet on the road." She holstered her gun and sheathed her knife. "I never meant for this to touch you in any way, Jo."

"I know. I am sure anyone who really cares for me will understand."

"I hope so." Sam gave her a quick hug.

"Here," Jo said, taking the scissors. "Let me straighten out the ends for you." She turned Sam towards the mirror again and snipped quickly, giving Sam a few moments to catch her breath and center herself. When Jo was done, Sam set the hat upon her head, and Jo looked her over carefully. "You'll do," she said finally, "as long as no one looks too closely."

"I will make sure that's the case," Sam said with aplomb. "Make my apologies to your mother. Tell her I'll be back in a few days, and this whole mess will be behind us. Have it put about that I am ill with an ague. That should keep the gossips away."

"Be careful, Sam."

"I will."

***

The two-day ride was blessedly uneventful. The rhythm of a hard ride in pursuit of evil was familiar, and to calm herself when she had qualms about her plan, Sam could close her eyes and imagine her father and brother beside her, or riding up ahead.

It was late in the day when she approached Margate, familiar landmarks comforting as she galloped past. She stopped at the Harvelles' house to alert the skeleton staff to her presence, just in case, but no one was about when she rode around to the stables. She spent a few moments splashing water on her overheated face, and watered the horse, as well.

She was tightening the girth on her saddle, preparing for the ride over to Iblis's estate, when her head exploded with pain, and then everything went black.

***

The first thing Sam noticed when she came to was that her head hurt. The second thing she noticed was that her hands and feet were tied, and she was lying on some kind of stone slab.

She could smell candles burning and see the light flickering behind her eyelids. She tried to remain motionless, pretend she was still unconscious, and take in as much as she could without attracting attention. Aside from the throbbing in her head, where she'd been coshed, she didn't seem to have any injuries. She smelled sulfur in the air over the scent of the ocean, and the stone beneath her was cold and damp. She heard the tread of boots on stone, which meant a stone floor as well--probably one of the many caves in the area that the locals used for smuggling. She tried not to flinch when the low light was blocked by a shadow, and a cool, dry hand grabbed her chin.

"I know you're awake," Iblis said, his breath hot and sour on her face. Sam opened her eyes and forced herself to meet his malevolent amber gaze.

"You won't get away with this," she answered with as much bravado as she could muster. "Dean will be here soon."

"Dean?" Iblis laughed scornfully. "Your idiot brother would rather tumble the wenches at the Pig and Whistle than bestir himself to escort his sister in society, let alone come after her while she's in real danger."

Sam jerked at her bonds, testing to see how much give they had. "You'll rot in hell for this when he's through with you."

"I'll expect to see you there, then, my dear." He leaned in close, whispered in her ear, "You don't think God looks kindly on those who commit incest, do you?" Her shock must have shown on her face. "I heard he was scandalously friendly with a rather fast young lady dressed as Artemis at the Walkers' masquerade. And I happen to know you were the only one wearing that particular costume that night. You mentioned it in passing, thinking you were so clever, dressing up as a huntress." He stood, walked away. "I know all about that, too. I have been dealing with hunters of one sort or another since before you and your brother were an itch in your daddy's britches."

She knew the longer he talked, the better her chances of survival. Surely Dean was on his way. "Is that why you're doing this? Because Mom chose Dad over you? Is that why you killed them?"

"Your father was a nuisance--a jumped up country boy who never knew his place. The old marquess offered to buy him a set of colors, but he insisted on going his own way, said if he wasn't good enough to be recognized as a son, he didn't want anything to do with the family at all." Sam blinked, trying to assimilate all this new information about her father, but bit her lip before she could ask, What marquess? "Mary couldn't see it--she was blinded by his rustic charm. She was so sweet, so virginal before he got his filthy hands on her." Iblis licked his lips and Sam felt her stomach turn. "Her sacrifice then would have given me great power, and nearly endless youth." He pulled a knife from inside his greatcoat--its edges gleamed dully in the flickering candlelight, and when he brought it closer, she could see old blood dried in the runes carved into the bone hilt. "So when I found you again down in Charleston, I thought you would give it to me instead, but she interrupted us before I could slit your fat baby throat, and I didn't have time to adjust the ritual. Vengeance was sweet, but her death didn't carry quite the kick I'd hoped for. And now, all these years later, here we are again. And they say there's no such thing as second chances."

Sam swallowed hard against the sting of tears, could feel them slipping hot and wet from the corners of her eyes. "And Jess?"

"Pretty little Jess, the vicar's daughter?" Iblis laughed. "You corrupted her, didn't you, with your bluestocking ways and your unnatural passions? It's not right for a woman to look at another woman with lust in her eyes, but there's always been something wrong with you, since the day you were born, hasn't there, Samantha?" She turned her face away, trying to control herself, to stave off the sobs that would leave her unable to plan an escape. "And you know it, too. I'll wager you torture yourself with it, when you're not sinning with your brother. All those little stains on your soul won't detract from how much I'm going to enjoy killing you, or how much power it will bring me."

She raised her chin defiantly. "Do it, then," she said, her voice hoarse and her eyes stinging. In the darkness behind him, she thought she saw something move, and she prayed it wasn't some demon he'd summoned to eat her soul. "Anything to stop your endless prattle. You're nothing but a pompous windbag, Iblis. A petty, self-important bore."

"You little slut," he hissed at her. "A true Winchester goose. I--"

"Oh, please, shut up." Dean leapt from the darkness, pistol in hand. "If I weren't going to kill you for trying to murder my sister, I'd do it just to stop you from blithering on like an imbecile." He shot, and Iblis wrenched himself out of the way, though Sam would have sworn the bullet grazed his arm.

Iblis brought down the knife and sliced the ropes tying Sam to the altar, then yanked her up in front of him, pressing the knife to her throat and forcing Dean to delope, his shot going harmlessly wide. Dean tossed the gun aside as useless, and drew his sword.

"Come on, Iblis. Let's see how you fare against me instead of frightened women and children."

"Pride goeth before a fall, Winchester," Iblis answered, flinging Sam away. She stumbled into the wall, scraping her hands against the rough surface. Iblis drew his sword and shed his greatcoat in one sinuous movement. "It will be my great pleasure to prove the truth of that to you."

Dean sketched a mocking bow, laughed grimly, and pointed his sword at Iblis like a promise. "The only truth you've proved is that even the devil can quote scripture."

Sam pressed herself against the wall and looked desperately for a weapon to use while Iblis's back was turned. Candles littered the surface of the stone slab upon which Sam had lain--it was some kind of rough altar, the grey rock stained with lichen and something that was likely blood (Sam didn't like to think too closely upon it, nor how easily her own blood might have joined it)--but nothing that had any heft to it.

Dean and Iblis circled each other briefly, taking each other's measure, before closing with the first clash of swords. The cave rang with the sound of metal striking metal. Thrust and parry, back and forth they fought, until Iblis's brow was beaded with sweat even in the chilly air of the cave. He was a skilled swordsman, quick as a snake and able to match Dean stroke for stroke, but Dean had spent the past four years fighting a war, had trained his whole life to fight, and he had the benefits of youth and passion on his side. Dean's graceful agility and sheer strength were a sight to behold, and had the matter not been so pressing, Sam could have lost herself in watching him.

Dean pressed his advantage, driving Iblis back against the stone slab Sam had been bound upon, his mouth curved in a feral grin Sam remembered from a dozen hunts. Dean was fighting to kill, and Sam prayed he would succeed.

Iblis stumbled and steadied himself against the altar for balance, his hand scrabbling across the flat surface like a sickly white spider. Dean moved in for the kill, and only an exceptionally impressive wrench of his upper body allowed Iblis to deflect Dean's sword, so it pierced his side rather than his heart. He shoved Dean back with a surge of strength fueled only, Sam hoped, by desperation, and swung wildly, pinking Dean's sword arm, the thin linen of his shirt parting effortlessly under the sharp edge of Iblis's blade.

Dean shook himself, grinning, and Iblis raised his left hand. The glint of the ceremonial dagger in the candlelight gave Sam a moment's notice of what he was about.

"Dean, watch out!"

Dean pivoted, brought his sword up to block the dagger, and the force of his blow sent the knife spinning from Iblis's hand. It went skittering across the floor and Sam scrambled for it while the two men continued to fight. Dean's sleeve was stained with blood, but he was otherwise showing no ill-effects from his injured arm; Iblis was foundering, one hand clapped over the wound in his side, which was not fatal, from what Sam could see in the dim light, but which bled copiously. Dean attacked with ferocity, a flurry of thrusts that Iblis barely blocked. Perhaps sensing the end was near, he struck out with his foot, sending Dean stumbling.

Before Iblis could follow up his stroke of luck with a lethal blow, Sam launched the dagger at him, years of training making her aim true. She caught him in the throat, and he went down, clawing helplessly at the knife. Dean righted himself and finished the job, plunging his sword into Iblis's heart.

"That's for our parents, you son of a bitch," he said as Iblis choked on his own blood.

He turned to Sam and she ran into his embrace. This time, he kissed her, the hard thrust of his tongue into her mouth speaking of fear and desperation and triumph all at once.

"You're all right?" she asked breathlessly when he released her. "Your arm?"

He shrugged and flexed it. "Had worse from the French. Are you all right? Did he--"

"I'm fine," she said. "My head is sore where he conked me, but he didn't have time to do anything but bluster before you arrived."

As if that reassurance had lit the spark of his anger, Dean began yelling at her in a way that she hadn't been yelled at since she'd last seen their father. "I can't believe you were so harebrained as to rush down here on your own, Sam. I thought you had more sense than that. What were you thinking? It was obviously a trap."

"If you had included me in your original plan--"

"It was too dangerous!" He rubbed a hand across his stubbled chin, and she could see the tension drain from his shoulders. He had never been able to remain angry with her for long. "Though I can see that leaving you in the dark is dangerous, too. What am I going to do with you, Samantha?"

She grinned. "I can think of several things, but first we must get your arm taken care of."

"Brat."

"Git."

He laughed, and led her out of the cave.

***

After some initial displeasure at being roused in the middle of the night, the skeleton staff at the Harvelles' were only too happy to see Sam and Dean return in one piece. Dean sent one of the grooms off to London with a note to Aunt Ellen saying they were both safe, and that they would be returning to the capital on the morrow. Then he let Sam lead him upstairs to her room without complaint.

"What of Grandfather--Viscount Lisle?" she said. "We should send word to him, as well."

"Sam. Samantha." Dean cupped her face, tipped her chin up so she had to look him in the eye. "I'm so sorry, Sammy, but after I found Iblis had flown the coop, I called on the viscount. He'd sent me an invitation, wished to introduce himself. He said he had some information that might be of use to me, though it turned out I had already learned most of what he had to tell." He smoothed his thumb over the arch of her cheek, and she felt the chill of foreboding before he continued. "His house was at sixes and sevens when I arrived. He'd been brutally attacked in his own home, and he was on the verge of death. He told me that he had wanted Mom to marry Iblis, and that he'd regretted driving her away by withholding his blessing from our parents' marriage." She nodded, swallowing hard. She already knew this, but she also knew this was Dean's way of preparing her for something worse. He grabbed her hand, squeezed it tight. "He said that it was the first time he'd seen Iblis since his courtship of Mom, and that the man hadn't aged a day in nearly thirty years."

Sam nodded. "Iblis was sacrificing women to some demonic master he didn't name. Their deaths brought him power and longevity. The knife--" The knife she'd killed him with. "It had the seal of Azazel carved upon it."

"I know." He brushed a strand of hair off her face. "He said Iblis told him that he was planning to do to you what he'd done to Mom, that he'd take the daughter where the mother had been denied him. And then Iblis gutted him like a fish." And though she'd known from the moment Dean had started speaking that this was where the story would end, she gasped.

"But why? What had the viscount done to him?"

"The viscount remembered Iblis, had known upon seeing him that he was not aging normally. He could have blown the gaff completely, which is why Iblis had avoided him. But he was planning on taking you tonight, and he wanted to tie up all his loose ends." Dean swallowed hard. He hadn't known the viscount, but it was obvious to Sam that the old man had made an impression. She squeezed Dean's hand, offering comfort in return. "He told him because he knew it would make it worse for the viscount, that he couldn't save you.

"The doctor said there was nothing anyone could have done, but the old man--he hung on until I arrived, so he could tell me the story. Tell me he was sorry he'd cut Mom off. He said not to let you blame yourself, that my first priority had to be saving you." She felt one hot tear slip down her cheek. Dean wiped it away with his thumb. "It always is, you know."

She sniffed. "I know."

"When Jo told me you'd gone after him--" He shook his head. "The whole ride down, all I could see when I closed my eyes was you, dying like Mom--"

"I know," she said again, pulling him close so she could kiss him again. "But I didn't. I'm all right, Dean. Thanks to you." He kissed her hungrily, his hands holding her tightly against him, and she could taste his desperation, wanted to take it all inside herself and let it burn off in the heat of her desire for him.

"I know it's wrong, but I want--" His voice was a low growl, but she'd never felt safer.

"I know," Sam said for the third time, and this time, it was a charm.

The maid knocked, then, and they separated reluctantly. The girl delivered the basin of warm water and the bandages Sam had asked for.

"This will be easier if you take your shirt off," she said after the maid left, and Dean was settled on the edge of her bed.

Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow but complied, letting the ruined shirt fall to the floor. Sam licked her dry lips and forced her hands to steadiness as she washed his wound and bandaged it.

"You cut your hair," Dean said, reached up to brush his fingers along the ends of her shorn locks. She shivered at the touch, trying to ignore the heat pooling between her thighs. She failed miserably, reached out to return the caress and run her fingers through his hair; he pressed up into the touch like a cat begging to be petted. His hands settled on her waist, and he leaned in, nuzzling against her belly and the underside of her breasts. "You can't pass for a boy anymore," he said, his voice muffled, his breath warm through the thin lawn of her shirt. "Even without your golden curls." She couldn't say anything, throat stopped with longing, thick and sweet like syrup. He tugged her shirt free of her breeches, and his voice was rough when he said, "We've inconvenienced the staff enough. I can play lady's maid for you tonight."

She caught her breath at the feel of his callused fingers against the skin of her belly, and her, "Please," was no more than a whisper. She let him undress her, pliant under his gentle hands and feather light kisses, the soft brush of his hair and breath against her skin making her shiver with need as he laid her naked on the bed, his own breeches shucked unceremoniously when he was finished with hers.

He pressed her to the mattress, his body warm and strong over hers, and she wrapped her arms around him, trying to draw him closer, hot skin and smooth muscle under her hands making her ache for more.

"Dean." Her voice vibrated with that ache, and he laughed softly against her mouth.

"It's all right, Sammy. I'm here. I've got you."

He lavished kisses along her throat and collarbone, then slid down the bed so he could pay his attentions to her breasts. His mouth was warm and wet over her nipples, the sensation like a lightning strike inside her, and she moaned and arched into him, hands tightening in his hair.

She didn't want him to stop, but he soon continued moving downward, licking along the ticklish skin of her belly, and then the sensitive skin on the insides of her thighs, the pressure and need building inside of her, making it hard for her to breathe.

"Dean?" she asked breathlessly, squirming beneath him, wondering if he were actually going to--"Oh!" He laughed, and with his mouth pressed to her quim, the sound vibrated through her. "Oh," she said again, though this time it was more of a moan, as he licked and sucked at her until the aching tension inside her snapped like a harp string, and pleasure flooded her.

Waves of pleasure were still rolling through her when he moved up the bed and settled himself between her thighs. He kissed her, and she tasted herself on his tongue, salty and sharp like the ocean.

"Are you sure?" he asked, brushing sweaty hair off her forehead. In answer, she reached between them to curl her fingers around his hard length. He laughed again, and then sobered, pushing her legs further apart. "This is probably going to hurt." The concern on his face, so clear in his eyes, made her lean up and kiss him softly in reassurance.

"It's all right."

He nudged against the slick folds of her quim and began to slowly push inside. She tensed at first, aware only of odd sensation of her body learning to accommodate him, and he murmured soft endearments and encouragement until he was deep inside her. He stopped, giving her time to adjust.

"Sam?" The strain of holding still was evident in his voice, and she shifted her hips, used her fingers to touch herself, focusing on the pleasure he had brought her earlier, and would, she had no doubt, bring her later. Being this close to him was worth the mild discomfort she felt, worth so much more than anything else she could think of.

"Dean, please?"

He leaned in and kissed her, tongue slowly thrusting into her mouth in the same rhythm he thrust his hips, and soon her awkwardness was forgotten as the delicious tension built up inside her again. She wrapped her legs around him, trying to hold him as close as she possibly could. He tensed and shuddered in her embrace, spilling himself deep inside her, his low growl of satisfaction rumbling through her.

He collapsed on top of her, his heavy weight making her feel safe and warm, and his hand joined hers, rubbing and stroking until she came apart again, his name on her lips, his breath in her lungs.

He gave her a smug smile and she kissed it off his face, laughing. She was still smiling when she slipped off into sleep.

***

Dean woke her late the next morning with kisses and the promise of a bath. Aunt Ellen's servants were discreet and well-trained, and Sam pretended not to notice when the maid looked at them askance as she filled the copper tub with warm water. The maid left, and after Dean locked the door behind her, she was immediately forgotten.

Sam sank down into the warm water, Dean's hands were gentle on her back and then between her legs, easing the pleasant soreness into aching need and breathless pleasure yet again. She wanted nothing more than to pull Dean into the tub with her and learn all the different ways of making him feel the same way, but she knew he was right when he said they had to leave.

"Mrs. Harvelle is waiting for us, and the servants will gossip, Sam. There's no help for it now."

"If I am already ruined--" She shrugged, unable to bring herself to care about something that once seemed so important, and reached for him. If she hadn't been paying close attention, she'd have missed his almost imperceptible flinch at her words.

"There's still Jo to think of," he answered, and Sam felt a small pang of guilt. "I have no wish to repay her kindness to you with scandal. If we hurry, we can probably beat the rumors to London, and quash them once we're there."

But upon returning to London, they learned that Viscount Lisle had been taken to his country estate in Dorset for burial, and there was no time or energy to worry about any rumors that might be circulating.

They traveled down to Dorset in a rented coach, accompanied by Aunt Ellen and Jo, and Jo's suitor, Lord Ashburn, who seemed a genial enough fellow. They attended the funeral out of respect for the viscount, and because they were both interested in seeing where their mother had grown up and meeting people who'd known her. They were on their best behavior, and Sam thought she might die of wanting, but Dean didn't touch her. She understood--the people here had known their mother, and though Sam didn't remember her, she wanted to respect her memory as much as Dean did--but she hated the strictures that kept them apart now that they were together again.

After four years of inchoate longing, Sam now knew exactly what she was missing, and she wanted it desperately. Sometimes, alone in a strange bed at night, she was afraid that he no longer did--he was all propriety, or as close as he ever came to it, and barely touched her at all, even when they were alone together, though his gaze followed her, lingering on the curve of her breast or hip as she walked, leaving her aroused and confused and full of doubt about his intentions.

It was a hectic two weeks, but this time when they returned to London, there were no social engagements awaiting them, just a long morning at the modiste, being fitted for mourning clothes, after which they would go back to the Harvelles' and continue to receive callers who wished to convey their condolences (and gawk at his lordship's American grandchildren, Sam thought uncharitably).

Madame Fauchon's was full of whispered conversations that stopped whenever they drew near, and when Sam was in the changing room being fitted for her new mourning frocks, she heard the other customers tittering behind gloved hands. While she didn't care what they said about her, she hated that people were talking about Viscount Lisle, saying he'd been hoodwinked by her and Dean, and she positively loathed the girl who didn't stop speaking quite soon enough, who claimed that Dean was likely his murderer. Only respect for the old man's memory kept her from slapping the silly chit for speaking ill of him.

She walked out of the shop with her hands curled into fists and her lip nearly bitten through from forcing herself not to speak, but she held her head high.

"No one of any consequence believes the rumors," Aunt Ellen said, but Sam knew it was a lie, knew their presence was only making things worse for the Harvelles, who should have been celebrating Jo's engagement to Lord Ashburn, not denying rumors about their scandalous American guests.

That first night back, Sam was unable to concentrate on dinner, her whole body tuned to Dean's across the table, sure that after Aunt Ellen called it an early night, he would come to her in her room, but when they retired to the parlor, Dean was taking his hat and gloves from the butler.

"I'll be back late," he was saying. "I have my key. No need to have anyone waiting up."

"Very good, sir," Bridges replied.

Dean gave her and Aunt Ellen a bright, false smile, and left.

Sam lay awake listening for his return, and he stumbled in sometime before dawn; she could hear from the way he walked that he was foxed, and there would be no talking to him in that state.

The next few days followed the same pattern. While she was stuck at home entertaining an ever-slowing trickle of guests, most of whom eyed her knowingly and spoke in hushed tones about her sad lack of prospects now that her lone suitor had been found dead, Dean went out to some club or gaming hell and came home drunk.

"You did say he was a devil with the ladies," Aunt Ellen reminded her when she complained bitterly about his behavior over tea. "A man can only be expected to dance attendance on his sister for so long without cutting up stiff." She patted Sam's cheek gently. "His behavior is unexceptional, truly. And it draws some of the sting out of the rumors if he is seen with other women." Which Sam couldn't argue with, though she felt herself blush under Aunt Ellen's knowing gaze. "In a few days time, some new scandal will have arisen, and all will return to normal."

Sam wanted to believe her, but she found her patience sorely lacking. After nearly a week of this unacceptable behavior, she was determined to speak with him about it.

"Don't go out tonight, Dean. Please," she said when he excused himself from the table after dinner.

He nodded once, reluctance plain on his face, eyes downcast so she couldn't read his true feelings in them. They sat quietly in the parlor and Aunt Ellen sewed while Jo read to them. Sam had her own embroidery in her lap, but she had no patience for it tonight, her mind on whatever she had done to drive Dean away, and how she could fix it, and when she pricked her finger for the third time in as many minutes, she felt the tears well hot and sharp behind her eyelids.

"Sam. Sammy." Dean sat on the settee next to her, tipped her chin up with his finger. "Everything is going to be all right."

"I know," she answered, hating the way her voice quavered, more angry than hurt. "I just pricked my finger." She held out the injured digit for his inspection, mouth falling into a pout.

He took her hand, examined it closely, brow furrowing in concentration, and said, "Shall I kiss it better?"

She nodded, still pouting as she had when she was a child and he'd kissed and bandaged her scraped knees.

He raised her hand to his lips, which were warm and dry, and though the kiss was as chaste as a nun's, she felt the slow, wicked curl of desire in her belly and the rush of wet warmth between her legs. He held her gaze, green eyes sparking with hunger that matched her own, until Aunt Ellen coughed.

"Perhaps we should retire," she said, putting her tatting aside and rising. "It's been a long day."

Dean rose as well, though he retained his grip on Sam's hand, drew her up with him. "You're right, Aunt Ellen," Dean still stumbled over the familiar address, but had agreed to use it privately at least when Aunt Ellen had insisted. "It's been a long few weeks."

"That it has," Aunt Ellen answered. "That it has."

Sam waited until the house had settled and she was sure everyone else was abed, and then she crept down the hall to Dean's room, candle in hand, sure now that he still wanted her, despite his off-putting behavior. The tension that had taken up residence in her shoulders had eased somewhat. She was sure he would soothe the rest of it away with his hands and lips.

The door was unlocked, and when she pushed it open, he was sitting up in bed reading their father's journal.

"You shouldn't be in here," he said, his voice tight and unwelcoming.

She tossed her head defiantly and strode towards the bed. "I don't care."

"Sam, I've been working to quell the rumors, but if you insist on behaving like a headstrong hoyden with no manners to speak of--Mmph."

She stopped his mouth with a fierce kiss, sliding her tongue against his, tasting the brandy he'd had before bed, headier on his tongue than the finest champagne.

"Sam," he warned when she pulled away, nipping at his full lower lip with her teeth.

"I don't need you to rescue me from this," she said, putting a hand over his heart. "I don't want you to rescue me from this, Dean."

"Your reputation, Sam! Everything you've worked for in your time in London, everything you ever wanted when you were younger--the chance at a normal life, a husband, children--you can have it now. If we do all that's proper, the rumors will die down, and one of Ashburn's friends, or that Percy Hampton fellow--he's not a bad chap, though he's a bit of a dandy--will make you an offer. They need never know--"

"That I'm soiled goods?" she asked sharply, and this time it felt good to see him flinch.

"Sam--" Pleading this time, but she was relentless.

"I don't care," she said, taking his face between her hands and kissing him again. "I don't want Percy Hampton or some fashionable buck who cares more about the cut of his coat or the fold of his cravat than about me. I want you, Dean. I always have."

He sucked in a breath, and she could sense his resolve wavering. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I do, Dean. I'm not some stupid girl who doesn't know the consequences of my choice. I'm choosing you. I will always choose you. The way you've always chosen me." She pushed him back against his pillows, threw a leg over so she was straddling him. "We could go home, Dean."

"Home." There was something odd in his tone when he said it, something she couldn't place.

"Yes. Home. I miss it, Dean. I miss being in a place where I belong, where I don't have to worry about breaking rules I've never learned."

"I thought you were happy here." He cupped her chin, ran his thumb over the arch of her cheek, and she shivered at the touch. "Had everything you ever wanted."

"Once I knew you were alive, I was content to stay and wait for your return. But you're here now, and I am ready to go." She lowered her gaze. "Unless you wish to stay? Wherever you are is home to me."

He kissed her gently. "You'll be the death of me yet, Samantha."

"The little death, anyway," she said, laughing. She took her nightgown by the hem and lifted it over her head, dropping it beside them on the bed. She placed her hands on his shoulders and looked at him expectantly.

"Minx." But there was laughter in his voice now, and enough heat to make her slick with desire, and she kissed him again, wanting to lick the laughter from his mouth.

He reached down, fingers curling into the tangle of curly hair between her thighs, stroking hard and sure. She gasped and rocked against his hand, back arched to present her breasts to his willing mouth. Pleasure built and shattered within her, and while she was still riding the aftershocks, he pushed inside her, making her gasp again. This time it didn't hurt at all.

They clung together for a long time afterwards; she was afraid if she let go, he would take it all back, try to deny her again, but when he lifted her off, he laid her on the bed next to him and though she was pleasantly languid from their lovemaking, she found that he wasn't finished. He slid down the bed and put his mouth on her, licking her clean and bringing her to a slower, deeper pleasure that rolled through her in waves.

He grinned at her when he was done, kissed her lazily, sloppily, and she could taste herself and him, salt and the sea, safety and home all at once.

"Was this the kind of order you had in mind?" he asked, laughter in his voice.

She was half-asleep and it took her a moment to figure out what he was talking about. "Yes," she answered breathlessly.

"Then I think I'll enjoy serving under you."

She laughed and snuggled closer, enjoying the way he cradled her against his chest as she drifted off into sleep.

He woke her murmuring, "Seven bells," bundled her into her nightgown and sent her back to her room. She woke again when Betsy came in to light the fire, and stretched, pleased with the world.

That evening over an especially delightful syllabub, Dean said, "We can't impose on your hospitality any longer."

"It's no imposition, truly," Aunt Ellen said, and Sam knew she meant it, but she also knew that it wasn't fair to ask more of the Harvelles than they already had.

"Even so, it's time for Sam and I to return home. I've procured passage for us on a ship out of Portsmouth in five days time."

"If you're determined," Aunt Ellen began, and Dean nodded, "then we shall be sad to see you go."

"We appreciate everything you've done for us," Sam said, "and I shall miss you both terribly, but Dean is right--it's time for us to go home."

***

There were many tears shed the morning Sam and Dean left for Portsmouth, but the closer they drew to embarking on their journey, the happier Sam felt. When they finally boarded, Dean seemed to relax, the tension of the last few weeks--years--draining from his shoulders.

"We're going home," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.

She smiled up at him, and thought that as long as she was with him, she was already there.

The End

***

Historical note: Byron was not, actually, run out of England until 1816, but for the story to work, I needed it to happen earlier. It's an AU, you know. Also, it was rumored that he and his half-sister did in fact have a not-so-sekrit incest baby, though she was still sleeping with her husband as well at the time.

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Disclaimer: All Supernatural characters belong to Eric Kripke, etc. This piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.