To Watch Over Her
Part 1 of 3

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 23,144 (this part: 8,410)

Rating: M / R

Summary: Mark's Achilles heel makes a very fine target for threats…

Disclaimer: [looks at bank balance] Still not mine.

Notes: Because she is, really. And, it's an excuse to visit an old friend.

ETA: DUH. I seriously, SERIOUSLY, could not have done this without just_dreamsome.

Your passion for this cause is admirable.
However, if you don't drop it on your own, we'll give you a reason to drop it.
It would be a shame if something should happen to that lovely wife of yours.
The choice is yours and yours alone.
Bring the police in on it and we'll make the choice for you.
We are watching you both.

Mark blinked, then blinked again, trying to comprehend what he was reading, because it couldn't be what it seemed to be.

A threat. A threat against Bridget.

He then realised there was a second piece of paper—more to the point, a photograph—and when he fixed his eyes upon it, he knew it was no mistake:

It was a photograph of Bridget, standing in their bedroom; it had clearly been taken with a telephoto lens through the parted curtains of their room, and the angle indicated it might have been shot from a house across the street at the same level. It was obvious she was just out of the shower, clad only in a towel and running her fingers through her dampened locks.

Mark was equal parts infuriated and terrified at being violated in such a manner; to conceive that someone had been watching her covertly (or worse, watching them) in the privacy of their home, even their bedroom; to have the woman he loved beyond all measure threatened with harm just to get him to cease working on a case of such importance.

There was no way he would give up on it.

There was also no way he would let any harm come to Bridget.

Reason kicked in and with shaking hands he gingerly set down the envelope, letter and photograph. Despite the warning, they would have to be dusted for prints, checked for DNA, when he got Bridget out of harm's way.

He strode the length and breadth of his office, pacing from his desk and back, running his hands over his hair. There was no question of secreting Bridget away for the near future. He was certain he was on the cusp of a breakthrough, and this letter, this threat, seemed proof positive. He could not stop now, not when he was so close.

The only question was where, and with whom, despite the fight she was sure to put up over it. He did not want to have to completely scare her into compliance with the photograph (as that would have opened up a whole other hysterical can of worms). He would brook no opposition, though, and he needed someone he could trust to keep an eye on her. She would not be happy to be secluded for the two weeks necessary to draw this unsavoury business to an end, and he had to be sure that whomever she stayed with would (and could) not only baby-sit her, but keep her well hidden.

His own parents were unsuitable, as were hers. They were far too easy to find, and the four of them, his own mother especially, were not particularly good at standing up to Bridget's iron will, especially when she wanted something really badly.

Her friends were equally out of the question. All one of them would have to do is bring home a few bottles of Chardonnay and she'd sneak out when the others got plastered.

As much as he hated to think of it, as much as he hated to even ask another person to become involved, he realised there was only really one good choice for this matter.

His uncle, Nick Wentworth.

He picked up his phone and dialled.

"Yes?" came the gruff voice on the other end.

He knew he couldn't discuss this over the phone, in case the "we are watching" included surveillance on the phones. "It's Mark. Are you free for lunch?"

"Lunch? You want me to come all the way to town for lunch?" he asked with a laugh. "I suppose. What's got you so fired up?"

"It's Bridget's birthday coming up," he lied wildly, "and I wanted to discuss plans for the party."

There was silence on the other end of the phone. It was June, and Mark hoped with all of his being that Nick remembered Bridget's birthday was in November. "I see," he said coolly at long last. "Where would you like to meet?"

Mark sighed with relief. Nick had understood. "The usual place is fine, just 'round the corner from Inns of Court."

"I'll be there in an hour." Nick disconnected.

………

True to his word, his uncle appeared at the door of the pub in precisely an hour, and took a seat before the glass of scotch Mark had at the ready. "What is this all about, boy?" he asked, partly irritated, partly worried.

Mark had no idea how to begin, so he came right out with it: "I've had a threat."

Surprisingly, Nick smirked, then picked up his scotch and drew in a sip. "Surely you get those all the time in your line of work."

"Not 'all the time', but never against Bridget." Mark reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the copy of the letter he'd made. As Nick read, Mark swore his colour drained.

"When did this come?" he asked gruffly.

"This morning."

"Postmarked?"

"Don't recall that it was."

"'Don't recall'?" he asked in a hiss, bringing his fist down hard against the table. "Mark, this is serious."

"Don't think I'm not aware of that," Mark replied. "The envelope and the original letter are safely stored in a brown manilla packet, as is the photo."

"Photo?"

"Yes. Of Bridget. Just out of the shower. I have every intention of taking them to the police as soon as Bridget's safely hidden away."

"Christ," said Nick, running his hand over his face.

"This is why I called you," said Mark. "I need your help. I need to have Bridget stay with you. You're out of London, your name isn't directly associated with either mine or Bridget's maiden name."

"What does she say about this?"

"She has no say in this. It's not up for debate."

Nick laughed again. "Yes, I'm sure she'll put up no resistance whatsoever."

"I don't care," said Mark. "Will you do it?"

"Of course," replied Nick without hesitation.

"Even though you know she won't give you a moment's peace."

Nick grinned evilly. "Even though."

Mark was sure Nick had vivid memories of their sequestration in his own home during that dark time when he'd been accused of accepting bribes and tampering with legal procedure and evidence. Despite that all, he was keenly aware that it was Nick who'd always known where Bridget was.

"You actually going to order lunch?" said Nick after a moment.

"Stomach's too nervous to eat," said Mark. "I'd prefer to get on to getting Bridget off to your house."

"Right." He took in the last of his scotch, then explained, "Fortifications for battle."

………

"No. I won't go."

Just as expected.

"Bridget, this is serious."

"I think you're overreacting."

"You always think he's overreacting," cut in Nick. "Even if we are, what's the harm in erring on the side of caution? It's only for a couple of weeks."

"A couple of weeks?" she said, horrified. "What if you're in danger too? Shouldn't I be by your side?"

"They're not threatening me because they know I'm not intimidated by threats."

"This has happened before?" she said incredulously.

He waved his hand. "It's not important."

"Mark! I'm definitely not going!"

"The time will be over before you know it," said Nick.

Mark engaged her eyes. "Bridget," he said darkly. "You'll go with Nick, I'll get the case over and done with, and you can come home."

It seemed a battle of wills, their gazes locked. There must have been something about the intensity of his stare that communicated the seriousness of the situation, because at last she sighed. "Fine."

"Get your bag together, and you can go with Nick right now."

"Now?"

"When did you think?"

She sighed petulantly, but he noticed there were tears in her eyes as she cast them downward. Nick must have noticed, too, for he quietly cleared his throat and slipped out into the hallway.

"I'll miss you terribly," she said sadly, her fingers twisting around themselves nervously.

"I know, darling. I'll miss you too." He stepped forward, sliding his fingers down the length of her arm before grasping to pull her close, pressing a kiss into the hair at her temple. "The time will be over before you know it," he said, echoing his uncle.

"You'll come and see me often?"

"Bridget, I won't be able to come out there. If I'm followed they'll be able to find you."

She pulled away sharply and looked even more crestfallen than she did before. "Mark, no." At that she actually began to cry.

He pulled her close again, cradling the back of her head with his hand. "I'm sorry. If there were any other way…"

"Can't I just stay at home like last time? And why not my parents? Why Nick?"

He sighed, thinking of the photo, thinking how if a camera could see into their bedroom, a rifle sight could just as easily do so. "I wish that you could just stay at home, but this situation's a little different. I can trust your security to Nick, trust you will not be found… and I know that he can handle you," he said in an attempt at levity; it worked as he saw a small smile play on her lips as he looked down to her. He then added, "I have to work, concentrate, focus on this case, and I can't do that if I'm also worried about you."

Her arms snaked around him and held tight. "But I'll be so worried for you," she said, sobbing into his lapels.

"I'll be fine. I promise you. They're not looking to hurt me, because if they do the case is even stronger. No, they know a more effective threat is one aimed at the one person in this world I love most. You."

Her sobbing strengthened, her embrace tightened, but he could feel her nodding. She said after a few minutes, "I'm sure you're right, but I can't help but worry. I don't like to think I'll never get to hold you again."

"Believe me, love," he said tenderly, "the thought plagues me." Gently Mark pulled himself away from her, wiping his thumb under her eye to brush away her tears. "Now come on and pack your bag. Whatever you forget Nick can pick up for you, if you're a very good girl," he said with a smile.

She sniffed then chuckled, punching him in the arm. Her smile faded, though, and she said, "Two weeks. I can be strong for two weeks."

He took her face in his hands and kissed her in the centre of her forehead. He wasn't sure he actually believed it, but he said it anyway: "I know you can."

When he pulled away again, the smile on her teary face was beautiful to see. He spent many moments looking at her, memorising every feature, every freckle, every little line. He wondered if what he was doing was obvious, because she laughed lightly, then teased, "Take a picture. It'll last longer."

He laughed out loud, then drew her to him to kiss her properly.

It wasn't until he was ushering Bridget and Nick out the back door that he thought it might just be the longest two weeks of his life.

………

It was going to be the longest two weeks of his life, or at least the longest hour and a half drive.

That was the thought racing through Nick's mind as he glanced over to Bridget, who was sulking and staring out of the window as they drove out to his place in Cambridge.

"My friends are going to worry," said Bridget. "I didn't even get to call anyone, and they can't call me."

"I've already explained, Bridget. Your mobile can be tracked by satellite. It had to be left behind."

She sighed.

"I'm sure Mark will let your friends know you haven't been abducted by aliens."

She pouted, folding her arms across her chest. "What can I possibly do for a couple of weeks out in Cambridge?" She gasped, turning to him. "What about work?"

"I'm sure Jen—Ms Wolford—will understand you'll need to work offsite. You've done it before," reminded Nick.

The reminder of his association with her boss caused her to smile when nothing else had that day. "You still seeing her?"

He cleared his throat. "I don't wish to discuss this right now."

"Aha!" she said, pointing at him accusingly. "You are."

He fought to hide a smirk at her interest in his love life, and said in his sternest voice, "Stop distracting me or I'll miss the juncture."

She fell silent again, but still had a residual smile on her face.

………

They were practically in the bloody country, just as Mark would have preferred, thought Bridget, though she had to admit the place was quite pretty. It was a respectably sized home for a bachelor, a country cottage of brick and wood with rose bushes peppered around the property, enclosed with a stone fence for privacy.

He stopped the car then turned to her. "Stay put," he commanded. She bristled. She hoped she wouldn't have to spend the next fortnight being bossed around by Mark's uncle. After rising from the car he walked forward and open the wooden gate. He drove just far enough to clear the gate on the inside, then got out again to close it again.

"I could have done that for you," she said.

"Nonsense," he said. "Besides, I don't want anyone to see you."

She made a dismissive sound. "Who the bloody hell is going to see me out here?"

"Don't argue with me, child," said Nick.

The garage door lifted just in time for Nick to pull the car into the bay, then came down once more. The light came on and Nick rose from the car. "Well, we're here," he said without fanfare.

"Hurrah," she said listlessly, rising from the passenger seat and standing near the boot to fetch her suitcases out. The boot swung up and Nick rapidly swooped in to grab them.

"Come on, I'll show you to your room."

They went up the stairs to the house, and after unlocking the door he reached in and switched on the light. They walked a little further, through a laundry area, before opening a second door, switching on a second light, to reveal Nick's kitchen. It was about what she might have expected: enormous with lots of preparation space, a gas hob, an oven, and a full-sized refrigerator. "It's beautiful!" breathed Bridget.

"I'm glad you approve," said Nick.

Suddenly, from what seemed like very far away, she heard a voice—a female voice—call out: "Nick! What took you so long?"

Nick froze in place. Bridget had never witnessed him look quite so horrified. The foreign expression was gone in a snap as he turned to Bridget, setting down her bags. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

"Who is that?" she asked incredulously.

"No one," Nick replied, shooting up to the main level of the house.

As curious as she was, she dared not risk his wrath. Bridget could only hear muffled voices and footsteps. Within a few minutes he heard a door shut—large and wooden, by the sound of it—then Nick returned to the kitchen.

"Come, Bridget. Your room," he said evenly, though his colour was still rather high, retrieving her bags again.

Bridget was beyond curious. "Who was that?" she asked excitedly.

"Never you mind," he said, leading her out of the kitchen.

"Uncle Nick," said Bridget, "you know I'm not going to rest until I get an answer, so let's save ourselves a lot of time and annoyance and just tell me whose voice that was."

Nick stopped so quickly she nearly walked into him, then turned around to face her. "If you must know," he said, his gaze as dark and as penetrating as anything Mark could deliver, "she is a woman I have been casually seeing."

Bridget frowned. "What about Jen? You said—"

"I said it was not something I wished to discuss."

"Okay, fine," said Bridget, feeling slightly indignant and hurt on her boss' behalf. "It didn't work out with Jen. Then why didn't you introduce me to her?"

Nick looked upwards, as if to the heavens for guidance and strength. "For starters, your presence here is supposed to be a secret. She is also…" He paused to consider his words. "She is not someone who will likely be a part of your future."

Bridget's mouth fell open in surprise of its own accord. "Are you saying she's… a 'just for now' girl?"

"A what?" he asked.

"A 'just for now' girl. Someone you're not serious enough about to buy presents and think about a future with."

"Bridget, dear child," he said, with a surprising chuckle, "I never claimed to be a saint." With that he turned again and continued walking. "Besides. Jen and I remain… good friends."

"So what's her name?"

"Is that really important? It's not as if you will be sending her a Christmas card."

"She has a nice voice," continued Bridget. "What does she look like? And oh! How is it that she got in? Does she have a key? That's pretty serious-sounding!" She then gasped. "Oh my God. Did Mark interrupt a—"

She stopped herself before she actually said the word 'shagathon', but he seemed to know where she was going with her line of questioning. He merely sighed patiently, then set down her suitcases. "Here's your room. You can get to your bathroom through that door, or through the hallway."

The room was such that Bridget had to fight the urge to burst out laughing: white and Spartan with nothing more than a single bed, a bureau, a nightstand, and a chair with a high back that looked horribly uncomfortable. It was something out of the Holland Park house prior to Bridget's moving in. She couldn't help but wonder if he and Mark had had the same decorator, if this taste in interior design was somehow genetically inheritable, or both. "Thank you," was the most she could offer. She was, after all, a terrible liar. "Where's your room?"

"Next to yours, at the end of the hall."

She pouted. "If you want your… well, if you want me to I can stay in my room, quiet as a mouse, if you want to… finish things up."

"Bridget, she's gone home," he said dangerously, an expression of distaste on his features. "Enough."

"Fine, fine," she said, relenting at last. "Just thought I'd offer."

Seemingly ignoring her, he said, "Dinner will be at six. I will get in touch with Jen and let her know you're here with me, and I'll send your work to her."

"But my laptop—"

"—will not have internet access," he said with finality.

She sighed heavily. She had been counting on Mark and Nick to forget about that technology, to keep a lifeline to the outside world. "This is like being in prison." Worse than prison, she thought; at least there I'd get conjugal visits.

"I'd wager the food's a lot better," quipped Nick.

She could not remember the last time she'd felt so morose. Exiled from her home and from the man she loved, forced to spend time in the country with his uncle, whom she loved and was sure loved her in return but clearly did not like her invading his domain.

"Child, what is it?" she heard Nick ask.

"What?"

"I know you're not thrilled to be here but you look like you're about to cry. If you're worried about Mark, I know he can take care of—"

"No," she said, interrupting him. "I mean, I am worried about Mark, but… I'm just so sorry to have to bother you like this… ruin your, er, time with your girlfriend, invade your house for two interminable weeks…."

To her surprise, he reached forward and drew her into his arms for a consoling hug. "Bridget, there are more important things than, as you put it, time with a girlfriend. You are family to me." He squeezed his embrace, then pulled away with a smile. "Besides, after all of the times you've had me as a guest," he continued in a light tone, "it's only proper I reciprocate." If his intent was to make her chuckle, it worked. In a more serious vein, he continued, his steely eyes engaging her own, "I'm glad to have you here, so I'll have no more of that. Am I understood?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful," he said. Clapping his hands together, he said, "Well, you should know your way around your home, albeit a temporary one. Let me show you around."

Up there on the second floor, at the end of the hall by the stairs, there was another guest bedroom, similarly decorated; however, this one was bigger and had a double bed, which made Bridget wonder why she had been relegated to the room with the single bed.

"Why can't I have this room?" asked Bridget.

"Too far away," he replied drolly, pointing to the door at the opposite end of the hallway, presumably the door to his own room. "If you and Mark ever come to stay with me, then you can have the big room."

She made a distinct sound of disappointment.

They then headed downstairs, and he took her straight to the library. Unsurprisingly it was well-stocked, with the expected number of legal tomes, but a good variety of other books, classic literature as well as popular classics. The dark wood and leather-bound volumes reminded her of Mark's library and she was momentarily wistful. "You're welcome to work in here," Nick said, "but if you need a cigarette, go elsewhere."

"Thanks," said Bridget.

He took her next to the sitting room, then showed her the downstairs loo, pointed to his office door, and circled back to the kitchen. "Well. I'll be in here. You're welcome to join me, take a nap, read a book… just don't leave the house."

She sighed. "Yes, Uncle Nick."

"And I'd prefer if you stayed out of the windows, too."

"What? Why?"

"Well, I don't need the neighbours to see you and start asking questions or circulating gossip. They'd certainly talk about seeing a pretty girl a generation too young for me in the window."

At that she chuckled. "Presumably at some point you'll take me for a walk so I can get some fresh air like some kind of puppy dog."

"I'll let you out in the backyard in the evenings," he said jokingly. "All right. I have to get to work."

She stayed with him, taking a seat at the kitchen table, watching him cut up chicken breasts, but her thoughts were miles away in London. What was this case that Mark was involved with that had someone so nervous they were threatening her own safety? Was he really in no danger? Oh, she wished desperately that she could call him, if only to hear his reassuring voice again.

"Uncle Nick, may I…?" she began, hesitating.

"You may do anything you like," he replied, not looking up.

Disbelieving her ears, she popped up off of the chair, then headed for the telephone. As her hand was about to come down on the receiver she heard his booming voice: "Except for that."

She froze. "What?"

"Bridget, you can't make phone calls, especially not to Mark. You should know better. If they're tapping his phone, they'll be able to track you down."

"But…"

"No buts. You cannot compromise your safety, end of story. Sit down and you can tell me your favourite dishes so I'll know what to make while you're here."

"I'd murder for a pizza," she grumbled, sulkily taking a seat at the table again.

Nick chuckled. "I can't change my habits that drastically. Ordering delivery pizza would surely raise some eyebrows."

"Chinese takeaway?"

"Bridget," he said with some emphasis.

"I'm going to go absolutely mental," she said, then added, "no offense meant to you."

"None taken." He was now chopping little green things.

Well, she thought, might as well sit with Nick. Not like there's anything else to do.

………

Nick was mincing the last of the green onions and was about to start in on the mushrooms when he glanced up and saw that Bridget had dozed off, sitting there at the table. He smiled. He truly did not mind her company or the responsibility because he knew he could keep her in line, though he didn't expect her complaisance to last for long. He had to admit though that he was mortified that his, as Bridget had so eloquently put it, 'just for now' girl had not actually dressed and gone home as he'd asked her to. There were some things, evidence of his being a mere mortal man, he liked to keep to himself; the very thought of Bridget residing in the next room whilst he indulged in carnal pleasures rather appalled him.

He pulled out the broiling pan, fired up the oven then placed the chicken breasts in neat rows in the pan. He drizzled olive oil over them, then sprinkled green onion and the mushroom on them, as well as some crushed garlic before pushing the pan into the oven.

Anticipating needing something to make Bridget smile later, he pulled out the mixing bowl, the whisk, the heavy cream, dark chocolate powder and sugar, and got to work on dessert.

He had just gotten the mousse portioned out into dessert bowls and into the refrigerator when he heard movement. As he expected, Bridget had awakened.

"I told you that you could take a nap, but I didn't expect it would be in here," he said dryly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to doze off, but—oh my God! What is that heavenly smell?"

"Dinner," he said. "Would you care for salad or fried potatoes with the chicken?"

"Ooo, I get to choose? Hm." She brought her fingers thoughtfully to her chin. "Potatoes, please."

Dinner was not one of his finest achievements, but Bridget seemed to like it well enough, and the look on her face when he presented the mousse, complete with chocolate shavings on the top, made him feel a sense of triumph.

"That was delicious," she said, licking the spoon after the final mouthful. "Hope I don't gain as much weight as I did the last time you cooked for us." She put the spoon down, looking momentarily sad again. He suspected she was thinking of her husband.

"I'm sure Mark is fine," offered Nick.

Bridget smiled. "I'm not convinced you can't read minds," she said wistfully. Sighing, she rose with her bowl, and came towards Nick to gather his, but she surprised him with a peck on the cheek. "Thank you so much. For everything."

He allowed a subtle smile. "Of course, dear child."

She took the bowls and loaded them into the dishwasher, then sighed again. "Don't feel like reading or, ugh, working. Maybe I can watch the telly?" she asked hopefully.

"I was thinking," said Nick, "we might engage in something more mentally challenging."

She looked apprehensive. "Like what?"

"A nice game of chess."

Bridget burst out laughing.

"Why is that so amusing?"

"I can't play, and I can't think of a more frustrating experience for you—for both of us—than trying to teach me."

"Nonsense. I'll have you beating me within the week."

Sceptical did not begin to describe her expression. "I can't remember all of those manoeuvres."

"The trick is to learn whilst playing, not try to give you a lesson then expecting you to remember it all. It's complex but you're bright enough to grasp it."

She beamed. "Well. I guess we could try."

………

So this was what it was like before Bridget was in his life.

The house seemed cavernous, and the quiet cast a deathly pall over the place. Mark had work to do yet found himself distracted by the sense that he was missing something.

Which, of course, he was.

He managed to focus long enough to prepare for court the next day, but when he got upstairs, saw Bridget's side of the bed unmade, her clothes on the bed, her bureau drawers hanging open—as if she might appear from out of the bathroom at any moment—he swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

It was for the best. He knew it. The time would be over soon and she'd be back. As necessary as this was for her own safety, the first few days and nights without her—not only without her there to hold and console him after a gruelling day's work, but with absolutely no contact whatsoever, not even the comfort of the sound of her voice—were going to be very difficult.

As he sunk to sit on the bed, he knew he would have to think of her safety above all else, and getting to the end of this trial, with his grand reward being to welcome her back home with open arms and fervent kisses.

A smile formed on his face when he looked over towards her side of the bed and spotted the teddy bear he'd bought for her when he'd thought she was sick; he recalled the bear's name was Shaggy. He was surprised she hadn't taken him along, as she was fond of mentioning how much she loved snuggling up to the soft, squishy bear when Mark was out of town for the evening.

The smile turned into a grin. He reached over and grabbed the bear, held it close and inhaled, taking the faint scent of her in. He would have to rectify this oversight as soon as possible, but knew instantly he couldn't send Shaggy alone.

He immediately headed back for his office, to his desk, though for a much different purpose than the case. The words flowed without much thought and before he knew it he'd filled up an entire sheet. He reread it and, satisfied with the result, he folded it neatly, heading back to the bedroom. He then went to Bridget's nightstand, opened the drawer, and found a suitable safety pin. He was about to pin the note to Shaggy's chest when he was inspired by another idea:

He set the note and the pin down on his own nightstand, then disrobed and otherwise prepared to go to bed. He slipped between the sheets, leaving the chaos of her side of the bed, of her bureau, just as it was, then pulled the bear close to his chest. He closed his eyes, comforted again by her lingering fragrance, and fell to sleep hoping that a single evening could infuse Shaggy with enough of his own to comfort her in turn.

………

The sun managed to find the one gap between the drapes and poke Bridget right square in the eyes, and for a moment she was completely confused as to where she was and why the bed was so small. It then all came back to her in a rush: Mark, the threat, Nick, seclusion in Cambridge, and… chess. At the last one, she grinned. She'd done pretty well for herself on her first game with Nick, even if she was being prompted the entire time by him.

She pushed back the sheets and looked around, was puzzled by the fact that there seemed to not be a clock anywhere in the room. She thought it was probably early, because she doubted Nick would allow her to sleep too long, so she turned over and tried to go back to sleep.

It was no use. Within minutes she kicked the sheets back, got out of bed, and headed for the bathroom, her toiletries case in her hand. She went into the linen closet and pulled out a pair of fresh towels, then proceeded to brush her teeth then shower.

It was halfway through her shower—after shampooing, but before rinsing the conditioner out—that it occurred to her that she had locked her connecting door out of habit, and had brought neither a change of clothes nor a robe with her into the bathroom. She carried on, figuring a towel wrapped around herself would have to suffice for the five seconds she'd be in the hallway.

She did not expect, however, to hear a shriek upon exiting the bathroom.

Nearly jumping out of her skin, Bridget turned to see a fairly plain-looking brown-haired woman carrying a basket of what she presumed to be dirty laundry.

"Oh my God! Who are you?" asked Bridget.

"I might well ask the same," said the woman, apparently offended by Bridget's very presence. "I come to clean the house twice a week. Mr Wentworth said his niece was staying, but he said nothing about a new lady friend!"

Bridget began to laugh at the absurdity of it, confusing the housekeeper. Bridget then explained, "I am his niece. By marriage."

The woman's features softened. "Oh. I do beg your pardon. The way he spoke of you, I was expecting a… child." She set the basket on one hip then extended out her hand. "I'm Mary."

"Bridget," she replied, ensuring her towel was secure before reaching to shake the woman's hand. "I'm sorry I frightened you."

"It's all right." She shifted her basket again. "Have you any laundry?"

"Ooo, yes, thank you!" She went back into her room and gathered up a bundle of clothing to add to the smalls and pyjamas she had brought back with her from her shower. "Don't suppose you'll have any trouble figuring out what's mine and what's not."

"I daresay not," said Mary, fighting a smirk. "Mr Wentworth was baking muffins when I arrived. I'm sure the chocolate chip ones are on your account."

Crikey. She'd be so huge when she saw Mark again he wouldn't recognise her. "Thank you. I'll get dressed then head straight down."

After dressing she dashed down the stairs, locks still dripping wet, and the smell of the muffins combined with brewing coffee made her mouth instantly water.

"Good morning, my dear," he said, seated at the table with a half-eaten muffin, a mug of coffee, one finished crossword and another beneath his poised pen. "Hope you slept well."

"Marvellously." She took a muffin—still warm to the touch!—then poured herself coffee in the mug he'd clearly left there for her.

"I've left the arts section of the paper for you there," he said, obliquely nodding to where it sat in front of an empty chair. "Celebrity gossip, theatre reviews, and what-not."

"Thank you," she said, pouring cream into her coffee, then stirring in three spoonfuls of sugar. She went to the table, pecked him on the cheek then sat down, taking a bite out of the muffin and a sip of the coffee. She sighed with delight. "Fantastic as always."

He made a little sound that she had come to recognise as an embarrassed sort of thank you, still focused on the crossword.

After reading about the latest offerings in the West End, drinking her coffee and polishing off not one but three muffins—GAH!—she rose from the table and stretched. "I'm going to go and get my laptop. I'll be in the library."

"Very well. I'll be in my office as soon as I'm through here."

She padded back up the stairs and into her room, found that Mary had already made her bed for her. She grinned, grabbed the laptop bag, then headed back down to the library.

After setting herself up on the table there, she stared at the screen and realised she had no idea what to write about. If only I had internet, she thought woefully, until she noticed the icon indicating a wireless network had been detected blinking in the corner of her screen.

She smiled maniacally, and brought up the control panel to connect.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Nick was a step ahead of her, or overly security-conscious, as the network required a password that she did not have.

Bugger.

She blew impatient air between her teeth and sat back in her seat petulantly. It really was going to be a long two weeks.

………

Nick stared at his computer screen, pleased with the latest addition to his article for the law journal. Consulting with his outline, he saw he was ahead of schedule, and grinned triumphantly. The home stretch, as his American comrades would say. He stood and extended his arms up over his head, deciding to go to the kitchen for another cup of coffee and have a cigarette.

As he was leaving the office, he heard a knock at the front door, repeated and firm. Furrowing his brows, he went to the door. "Who's there?"

"Courier service. Delivery for Mr Wentworth."

Suspicious, he asked, "From whom?"

"Inns of Court, London."

He wasn't expecting anything from Inns of Court. Unless…

Nick threw open the door, found he was faced with a young man, probably mid-twenties, thin as a beanpole and a shock of red hair. "I'll take that. Thank you, boy."

"Sign here, please?" he asked, obviously intimidated by Nick.

"If I must." Nick took the clipboard and scrawled his name on the line the delivery boy indicated. "Good day."

It was a box, and for its size it was not particularly heavy. He couldn't imagine what Mark could be sending. He tore apart the brown paper and found an envelope taped to the top of the box beneath the paper. It was addressed to himself, so he opened it.

It was indeed from Mark, explaining that the contents of the box were for Bridget, that he had no objection to Nick staying for her opening it, and that in fact he might want to be there to lend a shoulder after she saw what was in there. "I had to smuggle it out of the house in a garment bag," Mark explained in his missive, "and now Rebecca's going to box it up for me and send it out. Such subterfuge. But I don't think anyone will guess this was anything but yet another box leaving the office for delivery."

Nick set the letter down from Mark and walked with the box to where he knew Bridget was working in the library. He walked in and stopped dead in his tracks.

Bridget was playing solitaire on the computer.

"Bridget, I thought you were working!" he barked. She jumped in her seat.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't think of what to write about, so I took a little break." She turned and saw Nick with the box in his hands. "What's that?"

"This, as it turns out, is for you." He set it down on the table beside her.

"Me?" It then seemed to occur to her the only other person who knew where she was. "Oh!" She jumped up and attacked the box with some ferocity, finally working her way through the tape. The contents, a great, fuzzy teddy bear, puzzled Nick greatly, but upon seeing it, Bridget burst into tears. "Shaggy!" She pulled it up out of the box and held it close to her. "Oh, it smells like him…" she said tremulously.

Nick put his hand on her shoulder.

"What the—" She held the bear away and it was then she (and Nick) saw a note pinned to its chest. With trembling fingers she undid the pin, unfolded the note and read it. Nick looked away, not wanting to even inadvertently read the private message between husband and wife.

Nick didn't think it possible her sobs could intensify, but whatever Mark had written had certainly caused them to. With the note pressed between her and the bear, she embraced it with all her might.

"Are you all right?" he asked her tenderly, squeezing the hand on her shoulder for comfort.

"Aside from missing Mark more than ever… I'm just fine."

Nick had considered a lecture on getting to work, but now held his tongue. This was obviously something she'd need time to recover from. He was ashamed to think, when he first met Bridget, that he had thought her to be after nothing more than his nephew's money. "Why don't you go have a lie down with… Shaggy?"

Bridget nodded. "Very good idea."

………

My dearest Bridget—

It's the first night you're gone, and I'm lost without you already. How did I ever get through my days without you? I can only take strength in knowing you're safe, in knowing I will see you soon enough and can hold you close to me.

I regret that we did not have more warning, and that in herding you out the door I might have been a little too harsh. If I was, I am deeply sorry. I only hope that you're holding up better than I am.

Since I can't be there with you, I send in my stead a proxy, one who's stood in for me before, albeit for shorter periods of time. I think he's up to the task, though. When you're curling up to sleep at night, hold him tight; know that I will be imagining it's me in your arms just as much as you are.

You very well know I'm not a man of flowery prose; I don't speak eloquently when it comes to emotions and feelings, at times to my severe detriment. That said, you should explicitly know that I love you more than I can ever possibly express; that I would move mountains and part seas to ensure your happiness and safety; that I am not whole when you are not with me; that the anticipated joy in my heart upon seeing you again is the only thing keeping overwhelming sadness at bay. You are the light in the darkness of my dreary life, as it was before I found you.

I realise that came perilously close to flowery prose, so I'll end here. Just remember one thing if you remember nothing else:

I love you.

Yours,
Mark

There in the dim of her own room, lying on the bed with the bear crushed to her chest, Bridget had read the note what felt like a hundred times already and yet felt her eyes swell with tears once more. The soft fur of the bear was reassuring against her chin.

She was glad to have Shaggy, glad that he smelled everything warm and safe, like Mark, like home… but it made her miss Mark even more.

It was hopeless. She was going to be useless for the rest of the day, at the very least useless until she could send Mark something in return. She reached over for her diary and flipped it open to the back, to where there were some blank pages, and tore them out.

She started writing.

………

"Bridget? Everything all right?"

It was his niece at this office door, eyes red-rimmed and bright, bearing a few folded sheets of paper. "I need you to get this to Mark."

"Dear child," began Nick, "all of this communication between my house and Inns of Court or Holland Park is going to get terribly suspicious."

She came to sit across from the desk from him. "No, I've thought it through. You can send this to Magda, my friend. And Magda can give it to her husband Jeremy, who can give it to Mark. They work together."

Nick thought about it. It wasn't a bad idea.

"Please," Bridget added.

"All right. Let's get an envelope. Give me the address and I'll address it, then I can have Mary mail it."

"Not overnight?"

"Bridget, my sending an overnight letter to a woman I don't even know would arouse idle speculation. I'll use official letterhead, but you can write a note inside for your friend. He'll likely get the letter within the day."

Bridget grinned. "Okay."

"After this we really do need to maintain radio silence, as it were. All right?"

She pouted and said, "All right," though it didn't look like she was happy about it.

"Then we can hone your chess skills some more. After all, we have progress to make there—so that when you go home you can challenge Mark to a game, and beat him. Wouldn't that shock him to the high heavens?"

She grinned. Secretly, he thought she liked learning the game, for all of her initial protests. Her eyes then fixed upon something on his desk.

"That's sweet," she said.

"What?"

She pointed to the wedding photo of herself and Mark. "Having this in here with you."

"Well," he said, feeling suddenly a little flustered at the suggestion of sentimentality on his part. "I spend most of my time in here."

She smiled again, and he knew exactly what she was thinking: you don't fool me.

"So, about that letter…" he said.

He addressed one of his professional envelopes with neatly printed letters, as Bridget wrote a note on his letterhead explaining that Jeremy should pass it on to Mark. They got it sealed up and then left his office.

"Wait for me in the sitting room," said Nick, "while I give this to Mary."

"Okay."

Mary was in the laundry room, and he handed her the stamped letter as well as a twenty pound note.

"What's this for?" Mary asked, puzzled.

"I need you to post this for me," he said, then added, lowering his voice, "and pick up a large pepperoni pizza for Bridget and myself."

Mary blinked in surprise. It was true. It was likely the first time in their professional relationship he'd ever made a request for a pizza. "Yes, Mr Wentworth."

………

All things considered, it was a good night. Despite being sternly warned that it was a one-time thing, pizza in the sitting room over their game of chess with very good wine was something Bridget suspected she could talk him into doing again. She was really coming along with the chess, too—she'd hardly needed any prompting from Nick this time, and it was a fairly close match to boot, though he'd won again.

Now it was nighttime, and she was in bed, the lamp casting amber light over the room, Shaggy nestled in the crook of her arm. She hoped Mark knew she was thinking of him, hoped he would be as comforted by her letter as she was by his. On a whim, she reached over to the nightstand and read it once more for consolation.

I love you too, she thought, before folding it again, then turned over, switched off the lamp, and closed her eyes to go to sleep.

………

"Good afternoon, Mark," came a surprised-sounding voice. Mark looked up; it was Jeremy.

"Good afternoon," replied Mark.

"Wasn't expecting to see you in your office. Thought you were in court."

"A recess was called for the day, so I'm in finishing up some things. What can I do for you?"

"Some of your mail got delivered to me by mistake." Jeremy's voice dropped an octave as he set three or four envelopes on Mark's desk. "And this comes to you by way of my wife." He then set an opened envelope down on top of them all.

Mark was appropriately surprised. "What?" He picked it up and immediately recognised the envelope, the handwriting addressed to Magda. It was Nick's.

"Thank you, Jeremy." He'd had to confide the situation to Jeremy, being that they were working in such close quarters, though he never thought Bridget would reply through Magda.

"No problem," said Jeremy, who retreated, closing the door.

From the envelope, he pulled what he recognised to be pages from Bridget's diary and quickly unfolded them.

Mark,

Words cannot convey how much your letter means to me. I know you think you're not good with verbalising your feelings and emotions, but I have never read anything more honest, heartfelt or touching. I don't know how I ever could have thought you were a stuck up snob (I shudder now to think of the less-than-kind variations of that sentiment I'd dreamt up to describe you). Actually, most of the time you need not say anything at all, at least not with words—a look, a posture will often say everything you need to say to me.

Mark smiled at this, considering most people found him quite inscrutable; she was probably the only person in the world who could make such a proclamation.

I think I miss that most of all, the way you look at me as if I am the most perfect thing God has ever created; I know that I'm not, but it only matters to me that you think I am. (Well. That look is up there in the top five, anyway.)

He laughed outright.

I'll keep Shaggy close to me as I sleep, and hold on to him as if he's you. No one could ever truly take your place in my arms. I know when I see you again I'll hold on and not want to let you go, so I hope your calendar's free after this trial is over, because you can be sure I won't be wearing my granny pants. In fact, I may not have on any pants at all.

Stay safe. I wish I were there. I miss you. I love you.

Always and forever,
Bridget

He would have been surprised if a letter from Bridget didn't have some kind of naughty innuendo in it, and he smiled. He folded the pages up and tucked them into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket, to keep her letter close to his heart.

He then turned to the next letter on the pile, and used his letter opener to unseal it. He was a little puzzled when the letter opener came away with a residue on it. He pulled out the letter, saw more white powder fall out.

To hide your wife away makes our job more difficult, but not impossible.
We already know she's not in London.
This should smoke her out quickly enough.

Trying to remain calm, Mark reached for the phone.

Links:

I couldn't resist: Mark's and Bridget's letters rendered in handwriting fonts. I would have preferred something closer to this for Mark, but alas, Mr. Bantock's 'Griffin' does not appear to be available as a font… (which is a joke, as it is his own handwriting.)

On to Part 2.