Pilgrim, how you journey
On the road you chose,
To find out where the winds dies
And where the stories go.
All days come from one day,
That much you must know.
You cannot change what's over,
But only where you go.

Who can say
Where the road goes,
Where the day flows?
--Only time.
And who can say
If your love grows
As your heart chose?
--Only time.

He was so sleepy. But how could that be? It was only mid-afternoon, and he had slept the night through without dreams - for the first time in God knew how many years. Yet, here he was, struggling to stay awake long enough to finish -- what was it he needed to finish? Maybe it wasn't so important after all. Maybe if he just rested his eyes for a minute or two . . . .

* * * * *

Nikita tiptoed in from the kitchen and sneaked a look at Michael. He was sitting in the overstuffed chair beside the fire, head thrown back, snoring softly. The book he had been reading had fallen to the floor. (One of these days I'm going to get him to do something about that broken nose) she thought. Although it added an interesting asymmetry to his beautiful features, it also caused breathing problems at times. And the only times he had ever been sick (not counting injuries) had been with sinus or ear infections. If only all those panting female operatives and Valentine "marks" had known his sexy whisper was often the result of post-nasal drip! (How romantic!) she chuckled to herself, suddenly filled with tenderness for his man who was, after all, only human. She had doubted his humanity for so long that any evidence of it struck like a gong inside her heart.

The fire had died down, so she put on another log and sat cross-legged in front of it, at Michael's feet. He didn't even stir. She stared into the flames, mesmerized by the sparks of red and blue which darted through the yellow blaze. The log sizzled briefly as a spot of moisture was licked away by the heat. She savored the warmth and the faint aroma of cypress emanating from the hearth. An old-fashioned clock tick-tocked metronomically on the mantle above. She drifted . . .

* * * * *

The mantle clock chimed four times, paused, then belled twice more at a higher pitch. Four-thirty. In Michael's mind the sounds were transformed into the ringing of his cellular Section phone. He jerked awake, heart pounding, and began searching for it in the cushion of the chair. His abrupt movements woke Nikita, who found herself lying flat on the woven carpet, staring straight up at Michael. He had on the "blank mask" she was so accustomed to, and for a moment she was afraid it had all been a dream -- that they were still in Section. But no, she remembered, THIS was real. Section was the nightmare.

"Michael?" she shook his arm. He looked down at her, face no longer blank but tense. A muscle clenched in his jaw.

"I can't locate the cellular. I heard it ring. I have to find it."

"Michael," the cellular didn't ring. The clock chimed. Look," and she pointed to the mantle.

"It did?" he said uncertainly. "I thought . . . ."

"I know," she soothed, stroking his thigh. "You fell asleep. You must have dreamed it was the phone, not the clock."

"Yes," he agreed, relieved at her explanation. He gave a tremulous sigh and leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes briefly to collect himself. After a moment he opened them and smiled down at her ruefully.

"So I was asleep -- again."

"And drooling," she giggled, wiping a streak of dampness from his chin. "Just look at the chair cushion!" There was a dark stain where he had turned his face into the fabric.

"AND snoring!" she continued relentlessly.

He shook his head emphatically.

"Non, ce n'est pas possible. I don't snore."

"Hah! So I suppose I was just dreaming that you snore?"

"That would explain it."

She got up and gave him a hug.

"I have an even better explanation. You were snoring."

"Touche," he acknowledged her riposte and surrendered himself into her arms.

It had been a week since Walter and Birkoff had left them. Seven days and nights of eating and sleeping and slow walks and companionable silence. Seven days and nights of music and poetry and quiet contemplation and an ever-increasing intimacy. Seven days and nights of abstinence, too -- the result of that over-enthusiastic earlier coupling which had them both still a bit too tender to enjoy "full physical contact sport," as Nikita jokingly called it. But that was all right. There would be time. Until then, they played a gentler sensual game with tongues and lips and fingers and toes and long, slender limbs -- tasting and suckling, cradling and cuddling, spooning, twining, joined in every way but one.

Michael was healing. They both were. In so many ways. Sometimes it was only a baby step forward. Sometimes a stumble back. But the overall momentum was toward the future - a future which was not yet clear, but which was gradually coalescing into a vision of a life with true meaning.

They had not yet left the farm. There was a Land Rover in the barn, but neither of them had the desire to use it. There was a bike out there too, but Michael wasn't ready for that either.

"Maybe you could ride side-saddle," she had joked the morning he had tried.

He had managed to straddle the big machine, but when he revved the engine and took a test ride, the resulting jolts had nearly sent him into orbit. He had come off that bike like a cat off a hot tin roof.

When he could speak he had replied in a hoarse voice, "Perhaps you would care to try."

She had shaken her head, laughing. "Oh no. The only ride I plan on taking isn't on that bike." For a brief moment, she had stared at him provocatively, her hands on her hips. His face had paled and his hand had cupped his crotch. And that had been the end of that.

* * * * *

Now, with her arms around him she could feel his breathing quicken -- soft little puffs of air blowing over her earlobe. She debated whether to give him another invitation.

Testing the waters, she said, "Come on, my sweet baboo. I'll treat you to a cold shower."

"Sweet baboo?" he asked, intrigued by this new term of endearment.

"Yes. Didn't you ever read 'Peanuts?' One of the characters, Sally, was a real tomboy - a tall gawky girl who had a crush on Charlie Brown. She called him her 'sweet baboo.' Of course, he only had eyes for the little curly-haired girl."

He whispered, "But I only have eyes for you. So why don't we make that a warm shower."

She pulled back and grinned at him.

"Would you by any chance have anything else for me?"

His eyes burned into hers. He kissed her hand, then pressed it against his groin.

"I might."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Michael . . . .?"

"Hmm?"

"Do that again."

"What? . . . . This?"

"Oh, yess!"

He flicked his fingers in a tattoo rhythm in just the right spot, and her knees buckled. It was a good thing her hands were locked around his neck.

She nuzzled under his jaw, her tongue probing the pulse that beat its own frantic tattoo just under his skin.

All in counterpoint to the warm spray jetting over them from the showerhead.

"There's no 'w' in menage a trois," she murmured dreamily.

"There's no trois in this menage either," he quipped.

"Oh yeah," she moaned, "There IS!"

He stopped what he was doing and looked at her quizzically. She leered back at him while detaching the shower nozzle.

"Phaser on stun, Mr. Spock!" she commanded , changing the setting to "deep massage."

* * * * *

The damp sheets smelled of lavender and sex. A ray of sun passed through the uncurtained window and drifted slowly upward from the foot of the bed to the head. As it crept forward, it illuminated the two who lay sprawled across the bed, sated at last and sound asleep. In a sequence of still shots, it revealed every aspect of the human form - male and female. As Adam and Eve they appeared -- he about to awaken and find her beside him for the first time.

Awareness dawned.

(Bright. Heat. Prickle of sweat. Silence. Silk. Spice. NIKITA. Joy. Peace) (Light. Warm. Tickle of sweat. Quiet. Velvet. Musk. MICHAEL. Love. Ease.)

They opened their eyes and reached for one another.

"Michael, I'm hungry."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're always hungry when you wake up. And you're always hungry after making love. Therefore, you are very hungry."

"And . . . .?"

"And if I know what's good for me, I'll bring you something to eat right now."

"Your logic is, as always, flawless, Michael."

"Thank you." He smiled and kissed her. "I'll be right back."

He groaned as he stood up, pressing his hand to the small of his back.

She looked at him with concern. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing that another massage won't cure."

She laughed. "Oh, a quid pro quo, is that it?"

"Of course. One favor for another."

"Tit for tat, so to speak."

"Well put," he replied in a husky voice. His gaze drifted downward, lingering on her breasts.

She pulled the sheet up. "Michael? Food?"

He sighed and turned to go downstairs. Her view of his backside was quite an appetizer.

* * * * *

(Mon Dieu, she's killing me slowly, but I can't help myself. I can't get enough of her.) He groaned again while reaching for the biscuit tin on the top shelf of the larder. (Where is my self-control? Where is my focus? And these aches and pains - why can't I block them out? I've held up better under torture by Red Cell! God help me if she ever TRIES to hurt me!)

He loaded a tray with cheese, biscuits, fresh cherries, and a bottle of wine. Glancing out the kitchen window, he noticed a yellow rose blooming in the back garden, and without thinking he grabbed up a pair of shears and stepped outside to clip it. Woahh! The winter wind shriveled him in an instant. He leapt back inside, placed the flower on the tray, and headed back up the stairs.

When he entered the bedroom she was sitting by the window. She turned and looked at him impishly.

"You know, Michael, just now I thought I saw a flasher in the garden! But, maybe I imagined it."

She stared pointedly at the evidence of his brief excursion, then raised her eyes to his. (He's actually blushing! Another step in the right direction.)

"What did you bring me?" she asked. "Anything hot?"

"Not yet," he retorted, "but give me time and I can probably arrange that." He came over and sat on the bed, the tray in his lap.

"Oh well, guess I can get started on these --Oh, Michael, how beautiful!" as she noticed the rose.

He picked up a cherry and popped it in his mouth. It squirted as he bit down and juice dribbled from the corner of his mouth. She reached out and wiped it away with her finger, then licked it clean.

He inhaled sharply. Two wineglasses clinked together as the tray jerked slightly.

"Here, why don't you let me take that?" she offered disingenuously.

"No!" "I can handle it, thank you," he added with forced calm.

"I could handle it for you, if you'd let me," she retorted. "That is, after I've finished eating."

The glasses clinked louder.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They had devoured everything on the tray. Biscuit crumbs littered the bed, and a splash of white wine was all that remained in the bottle.

"Ummph, c'est si bon," murmured Michael. He lay face down as Nikita straddled him, running her thumbs along each side of his spine, pressing deep into the knotted tissue, smoothing out the kinks. "Plus fort, s'il vous plait."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "You really want me to press harder?"

"Mmm humMPH!" he grunted as she complied. She concentrated on a particularly nasty knot, using both thumbs in a circular motion, then pushing down and out, releasing the lactic acid congesting that muscle. She felt it soften, then relax.

"Ahhh! Ca va mieux! Merci !" he groaned out heartfelt thanks for the relief her touch brought.

She moved on to another bad spot, this one lower down, in that hollow just at the juncture of his spine and his buttocks. She could feel him tense as she started to dig in deep, so she eased off a little and rubbed the area softly with the palms of her hands. The friction warmed and soothed him, so that she was able to gradually work her thumbs more deeply into the inflamed soft tissue.

She bent down and, in a random pattern, pressed butterfly kisses over his back. With each brush of her lips he hardened more. (Dieu, she might as well be using an air pump!) By the time she had finished, he thought his erection might have punched a hole in the mattress. It was trapped beneath him, pulsing in time to the pounding in his ears.

Nikita pressed on, seemingly oblivious to the havoc she was wreaking on his self-control. She was now massaging between his shoulderblades, right on that pressure point where it was hinged to the nerve center. She rotated his shoulder, exposing that joint so she could dig her thumb into it. Pleasure/pain exploded as she found the center of the tension and kneaded it out.

"Agghh!" he cried again, and suddenly tensed all over.

Nikita immediately pulled back. There was a different tone in his voice this time.

"Michael, are you all right?"

He had tucked his elbows under him and lifted slightly off the bed, but she still couldn't see what was wrong.

He moaned, then rolled over on his back. She took one look and started to laugh.

"Now there's a tense muscle if I ever saw one! Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"Because I didn't want you to stop," he croaked.

"Do you want me to stop now?" She trailed her fingers lightly over him.

"God, DON'T!"

She lifted her hand away, teasing.

"Don't what, don't go on or don't stop?"

For answer he reached out and grabbed her wrist, forcing her hand back down onto his throbbing member. It rose to meet her, and she rubbed the knob with her palm. It was already slick with moisture, and the friction of her hand encouraged a heavier flow of lubricant. He strained upward, needing more.

She shook off his hand. "Let go, Michael, you're interfering with my work."

He clutched the covers instead, desperate for something solid to hold onto. She began to work him with both hands, as though she were pulling taffy. When she released him, his cockstand was a sight to behold.

"Hmm, this would make a good horseshoe target," she commented.

"Horseshoe target . . .?" he panted.

"Yeah, you know, those metal posts about 8 inches high that you pound into the ground and throw horseshoes at? I don't know exactly what the post is called, but if the horseshoe connects just right they call it a 'ringer.' I wonder . . . ." And she scootched off the bed and began to rummage in the dresser drawers.

"Ah hah!" she exclaimed, and held up a pair of old-fashioned garters - black lace with a tiny bell attached to the side of each one. His eyes widened as her intention became crystal clear, and his penis gave another lurch upward, eager for the game to begin.

The first garter flew in a perfect arc from across the room. Time stretched as it seemed to float down over his erection, the lace tickling him all around as it came to rest in the matted curls at the base. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Her next shot was almost as true. This one also connected, but was a tad off center, so that it caught on the knob and hung there, the bell positioned right over that oozing slit in the tip. It tinkled with every tiny spasm. His head came up off the pillow, and he stared glassy-eyed at her.

"You win," he rasped.

She sauntered over and examined her handiwork intently. Then she reached out and repositioned the second garter so it joined the first one. She twisted them both so that they tightened around the base of his penis, causing it to swell even more. She eyed it hungrily.

"Is this my prize?"

He gave a jerky nod.

She loosened the garters a bit, then using both hands, she pulled them back up toward the tip. All along the length of him, the lace scraped against his hypersensitive skin, and every nerve ending screamed in reaction. He went plank-stiff, his heels digging into the mattress, as he arched like a bowstring and the arrow between his legs took flight. Creamy liquid spurted out of him in hard bursts, splattering her breasts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * The sun was setting, painting the sky with hot pink and purple streaks. As twilight deepened, the moonflowers, giant blooms five inches across, were beginning to unfurl. Their fragrance was almost overpowering. Nikita, dressed in sweats and warm socks, sat in the porch glider, huddled under an old horse blanket. She didn't mind the cold. All she had to do was think of Michael to kindle a flame that warmed her from the inside out.

She had left him asleep again -- as limp as a rag doll. His strength and stamina weren't up to par yet, and that last little game they had played had taken its toll. At first she was afraid she had hurt him again, from the sounds he had made at climax. But by the time she had washed up and returned with a wet soapy cloth, he was dead to the world. She had wiped him down and thrown the covers over him, leaving him to sleep it off. That was a couple of hours ago, and she was getting impatient for him to wake up so they could eat supper. The little snack they had had earlier in the afternoon had long since worn off, and she was ready for something more substantial. She had found a recipe for paella tacked to the refrigerator and tried her best to follow it. The result was simmering in a black iron pot on the stove. She hoped it would at least be edible. They were getting low on fresh vegetables, so she opened a can of marinated artichokes for a salad. They really would need to make a trip into the village tomorrow for supplies. She wasn't sure how to broach the subject with Michael -- he had shown no inclination to go anywhere, and she wondered if he intended to hide away here indefinitely. Oh well, tomorrow would take care of tomorrow's troubles.

It was full dark by now, and her stomach was growling. As she opened the door into the main room she could smell the paella - saffron and pepper, shrimp and sausage. Her mouth watered. She set out bread, salad, plates and utensils, then filled two glasses with Cabernet.

(Okay, Michael, here I come, ready or not,) she said to herself as she went to wake him up. She opened the door to the bedroom. It was so dark she stubbed her toe on the leg of the dresser. "Ouch! Damn it!" she exclaimed.

He came up off the bed in one fluid move and locked his arm around her throat. "Move and I'll kill you," he hissed.

"Michael . . . .?" she whispered in a calm voice. "It's me, Nikita."

He released her as suddenly as he had attacked.

"Nikita . . .?" His voice trembled, then he gave a sob. "I'm sor-ry, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry . . ." He couldn't stop saying the words.

She turned around. He was huddled against the wall, his hands cradled under his arms.

She approached him slowly with her arms open wide. He shook his head in denial of her comfort. Just stood there shaking his head and repeating "I'm sor . . " She put her hand over his mouth. She could feel his lower lip trembling. It was still too dark to see his eyes, but she knew he was crying. She kissed his eyelids and tasted salt water.

"It's all right, Michael. I'm all right. You didn't hurt me. Remember, you trained me to defend myself. If I had felt I needed to, I would have disabled YOU. Besides, it wasn't your fault. It was just an accident. I tripped over the damn dresser and startled you with my howling."

He digested her words, then stepped forward into her arms. She held him close until the trembling stopped.

"Supper's ready," she said matter-of-factly. "Why don't you get dressed and come downstairs." She turned on the small bedside lamp, then went over to the dresser and pulled out a flannel shirt and a pair of drawstring pants. He stood where she had left him.

"Here. Put these on," she said.

He managed the shirt okay, but nearly fell trying to put on the pants. She grabbed hold of him just in time.

"Put your hands on my shoulders," she directed. "Steady, like that. Lift your leg. Now the other one. That's it. All done now." And she drew the string tight at the waist, noticing as she did how thin he still was.

"I love you, Michael," she murmured, stroking his arm. "Now let's eat. I'm starved."

* * * * * *

After supper, he played for her.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Thank you."

They were stretched out side by side on the rug in front of the fire, chins resting on their folded arms, content to stare into the flames. He turned his head to face her. He lifted one strand of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers.

"For what?"

"For tonight. For telling me how much you love me."

"I don't remember . . . ."

" . . . . the music, Michael. In the music."

"Oh." He turned backed toward the fire. His face was flushed as much from embarrassment as from the heat.

(He's so shy! How is it I never noticed that until recently?)

She threw her arm companionably over his shoulders and cuddled closer.

"Today was a good day, Michael. What would you like to do tomorrow?"

"I hadn't thought that far ahead. Is there something you have in mind?"

"Well, we do need fresh bread, and eggs, and milk. . . . . And I'm going to need some tampons in the next couple of days."

"Of course." His blush deepened. "I should have thought of that."

She laughed. "And just why should YOU have thought of it?"

"I've been married," he said, his voice trailing off as images of Elena and Simone flashed through his mind. His eyes blurred, and he rubbed them with the heels of his hands.

There was nothing to say. She lay beside him, waiting. This had happened frequently over the past week, and always he had chosen to return to her. Each time he came back she gained more confidence in his love for her. And each time he returned a little sooner - a little stronger.

He took a deep breath and blew it out, then focused on her again.

"What were you saying?"

She picked up the thread of their recent conversation as though the past few minutes hadn't even happened. She sensed he preferred it that way.

"I was saying, or hinting rather, that we might take a trip into the village tomorrow."

"Fine."

"Fine as in REALLY fine, or fine as in Section fine?"

He smiled. "The former."

"Oh goody!" She jumped up. "I need to make a list. Hang on a minute. Let me get a notepad."

He turned over on his back, his eyes following her as she scrounged around for paper and pencil. She found what she was looking for in the rolltop desk and returned to sit beside him, Indian-style.

"Now let's see," she said, licking the pencil point, "bread, eggs, milk, fresh fruit, salad greens, tomatoes, . . . what else, Michael?"

"Um . . . . Juice. Cream. Butter. Pate. Perhaps a nice chicken. And tampons."

She finished writing. "Is that everything?"

"That's all I can think of right now."

"All right, then. We're good to go. Do you want to take the Rover or the bike?"

"The Rover. We may see something larger we want to buy."

"Like what?"

"I have no idea. But if it's there I'm sure you'll find it."

She booted him lightly.

"Are you insinuating that I am a spendthrift?"

"No. I'm not INSINUATING that at all."

She tackled him then, flopping down on his chest and tickling him unmercifully. If he didn't know it was humanly impossible, he'd have thought she had more than two hands.

"I surrender!" he cried out breathlessly, as she found a particularly sensitive spot.

"Oh no you don't." she sighed. "I surrender first." And she went limp as a noodle. She covered him from head to foot, like a blanket, and he relaxed, comforted by the warmth and weight of her.

The mantel clock chimed midnight. But this time neither of them heard it.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Once, as my heart remembers,
All the stars were fallen embers.
Once, when night seemed forever,
I was with you."

Once, in the care of morning,
In the air was all belonging.
Once, when that day was dawning
I was with you.

Once, as the night was leaving,
Into us our dreams were weaving.
Once, all dreams were worth keeping.
I was with you."

False dawn cast a silver glow over the landscape. Frost glittered on the metal roof of the barn and on the fields surrounding it. Somewhere in the distance, a fox yipped to its mate. Inside the house, all was still. Only glowing embers remained in the hearth. Nikita came half-awake, roused by the sound of a voice in her ear. Michael was talking in his sleep again.

"Que voulez-vous de moi? J'ai vous donne tous ce que j'ai a donner. Non, je ne peux pas. Vous savez qu'elle soit innocente."

She came fully awake as his words sank in. "What do you want of me. I have given you everything I had to give. No, I cannot. You know that she is innocent."

(Who was innocent? - Me? Elena? Lisa Fanning? 'She' could be anyone of a hundred women he has manipulated, seduced, even killed, in the name of God knows what power. But wait -- he said he couldn't. Whatever they asked of him, he said he couldn't do it. Maybe this time he didn't.)

He began to cry, his head twisting back and forth. "Non, je vous prie." Then louder, "NON!"

"Michael! Wake up!" she took his head in her hands and shook him. His eyes popped open.

"Wha . . .? What is it?"

"You were dreaming." She stroked his hair. It was damp with sweat. "Do you remember it?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No. But that's not unusual. I seldom remember my dreams. Did I say anything?"

"Yes, but it doesn't matter."

He stared up at her. Lifted his hand to her cheek. "What did I say?"

She hesitated, then told him, "You said, 'You know she's innocent.'"

His hand stilled. He looked over her shoulder, out into the distance, that same blank gaze she had grown so accustomed to in Section -- that final line of defense against thoughts and feelings too painful to face squarely.

(What did you expect, Nikita?) She asked herself bitterly. (You've pushed him too hard, too fast. It's your own fault.)

But he surprised her this time. With a visible effort he forced himself to look directly into her eyes.

"I love you, Nikita. I need you. But there are some things I can't give you. I can't change what I've done to you. I wish to God I could. But it isn't in my power to do so. All I can do is love you now, and ask for your forgiveness for what's gone before."

"So it was me you were dreaming about."

"I really don't remember. It might have been. Is that what you want to hear?"

She touched her forehead to his. "Yes, Michael, that's what I want to hear. All I ask is your honesty. And your love. And tonight you've given me both. Now let's go to bed. I'm cold."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Each heart is a pilgrim,
Each one wants to know
The reason why the winds die
And where the stories go.
Pilgrim, in your journey
You may travel far,
For pilgrim, it's a long way
To find out who you are."

"Michael, let's go! It's nearly ten o'clock!

"Is there some reason to hurry?"

Nikita examined him more closely. A shadow lurked in his eyes, and he appeared restless.

(He's hiding something from me again, damn it!)

"All right, what's the matter."

"Nothing."

"Michael, don't tell me 'nothing.' If you don't want to go, just say so, and we won't go."

He took a deep breath. "Of course we'll go. It's time. I just don't . . . ."

"You just don't what?

"I just don't know how to be 'normal' any more. I only know how to play the role of a normal person."

"You haven't been playing a role with me for the past week, Michael."

"It's different with you. You know things about me that no one else does. But those people out there, in the village, in the rest of the world, they don't - they can't - ever know who I really am."

She moved closer and rested her palm against his cheek.

"Do you want me to tell you who you really ARE, Michael? You are a man with many gifts who has been forced to use those gifts in ways that no human being should ever have to use them. You are a man who has done the very best he could under horrific circumstances. You are a man who, despite suffering terrible personal loss, has chosen to live and to love and to try again. And you are the man I love. And I see no reason at all why everyone else can't know that man."

He moved into her arms and rested his chin on her shoulder. She cupped the nape of his neck with one hand and pressed him to her with the other. She felt the gun.

She tried to make a joke about it. "Is that a gun, or are you just glad to see me?"

"Both."

She patted him on the back. "It's going to be all right, Michael. Trust me."

After a moment, he pulled away and said,

"If you'd like, perhaps we could have dinner in the village before coming home."

"I'd like that very much."

* * * * * *

They had spent the last four hours wandering from one shop to another as the mood struck, leaving orders for the supplies they would pick up before heading back to the farm. Nikita had dragged Michael into the hardware store, where she had tested every color of paint in stock. He had found a tiny bookstore, and she had chatted with the proprietor for an hour while Michael kept adding to the stack of books on the check-out counter. Each time they entered a different shop, Nikita had introduced herself and Michael to the shopkeeper. Her imperfect French was no hindrance, as Michael soon discovered, since even the most ardent Francophile was won over by her enthusiasm. And, to his relief, his own reticence was taken as a matter of course -- the natural complement to a lovely and vivacious wife. He relaxed and began to enjoy himself. Nikita glanced at him from time to time and was delighted at the openness of his expression.

(Hello, Michel,") she thought fondly. ("How nice of you to join me today.)

At last they came to a small antique shop at the edge of the village.

"Oh Michael, we have to see what's in here!"

He groaned but allowed her to drag him inside.

It was filled with antique toys.

"Bonjour, Madame et Monsieur. Je m'appelle Madame Beaullieu. Peux-je vous aider?" An elderly woman, black stockings rolled down her ankles, called to them from a rocking chair in the corner.

"Oh, you have so many beautiful toys!" exclaimed Nikita. "Where did they all come from?"

"My husband's family, Madame. They are packrats, all of them, and what you see in here is the result of their hoarding for many generations. Fortunately, I have a good head for business. Otherwise, there would be no room at all in our own house."

Michael looked at Nikita. Her eyes were wistful as she fondled one toy after another, not quite daring to pick anything up and hold it in her hand. He had a vision of her as the deprived child she had really been, window-shopping at Christmas or birthdays, but never daring to hope that what she wanted might ever be hers to keep. He watched and waited.

After observing Nikita for some moments, Madame Beaullieu rose stiffly from her chair and hobbled over to Michael. She signaled him to follow her.

"Venez, Monsieur. Il y a quelque chose unique ici." And she led him into another chamber to show him the "something special." The moment Michael saw it he knew it was meant for Nikita. It was a good thing they had driven the Land Rover.

"I'll take it, Madame."

"Doesn't Monsieur wish to know the price first?"

"Non."

The old woman's eyes gleamed, and she patted him on the arm. He tensed at the contact, then relaxed. If she noticed his reaction, she gave no sign -- merely patted him again, more heartily.

"Ah, Monsieur, vous avez raison. C'est le cadeau perfect pour votre jolie marie. - You're right, it's the perfect gift for your beautiful wife." Then she cackled, "Besides, even a man as virile as yourself must take a rest now and then, heh? At such a time, she can ride this instead!"

Michael nodded as if in agreement. Then he said, in a conspiratorial tone, "Does Madame think it might be sturdy enough for two?"

She howled and slapped his back, "Ahh, Monsieur, I can assure you it was made by the finest craftsmen. I have no doubt at all it will withstand any test of strength you may subject it to."

"Nikita, come here," he said.

"Oh . . . !"

The rocking horse was the largest one she had ever seen. It appeared to have been made from a carousel horse. It was poised on its rocker base as though in full gallop. It was painted dapple gray, with a white mane and tail fashioned from real horsehair. The gleaming black saddle was of soft leather, and the stirrups were silver. The reins were of purple velvet with gold tassels.

She just stood there, devouring it with her eyes. Then she heard Michael say to Madame Beaullieu,

"We'll be back to pick it up an about an hour, Madame. Is that agreeable?

"Main bien sur, Monsieur." She smiled at Nikita.

"Votre mari, il vous aime beaucoup, Madame."

"I know he does. Et je l'aime beaucoup aussi. I am the most fortunate of women." She replied, looking not at Madame but at Michael. He gave her a smile so sweet that her eyes blurred with tears.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It was nearly four o'clock. They were sitting in "Le Coc d'Or" sipping an aperitif and nibbling on toasted rounds of French bread spread with Chef Begnaud's "pate du lapin". Nikita ate with her usual gusto, licking the pate off the bread as though she were eating the filling of an Oreo, then crunching the denuded toast with her little sharp white teeth.

(Elle mange comme Lyle Lyle Crocodile - she eats like Lyle Crocodile) Michael smiled to himself in remembrance of one of Adam's favorite bedtime stories.

"A franc for your thoughts," she said, noticing the soft expression in his eyes.

He focused on her. "I was thinking of Adam," he said quietly.

She reached across the table and took his hand in hers.

"I'm glad." She didn't press him further. He would tell her more in his own time.

He reached for one of the appetizers. He held it aloft with a questioning look.

"Do you mind? I wouldn't want to deprive you."

She glared at him as he popped the entire thing in his mouth.

He chewed deliberately and swallowed, washing it down with another sip of his drink. He was silent for another minute or two, then continued.

"I was thinking that you remind me of Lyle Crocodile, one of Adam's favorite storybook characters. Lyle lived on the banks of the Nile, but he was kidnapped and brought to Napoleon's zoo in Paris. He could never get enough of his favorite food, so he was always hungry.

She kicked him under the table.

"Ouch!" he hissed.

The elderly man at the next table smiled and whispered to his wife, "Ah, les jeunes amoureux - comme toi et moi il y a quarante ans, Therese. - young love, like you and me forty years ago."

She slapped his hand away and retorted gruffly, "Eh bien, vieux homme, comme toi and moi a ce moment!"

The main course arrived - boeuf bourgignon with chanterelles, followed by young white asparagus - only in season for a few weeks a year.

And finally, dessert. Nikita's eyes widened at the array of chocolate pastries presented for her selection. Michael's eyes glittered with amusement as he observed her in the throes of making her decision. She finally selected an éclair.

He shook his head as the waiter offered him the tray.

"A wise choice," he said to her. "One can never go wrong with the classics."

She looked up at him.

"If you think I'm going to share this with you, you'd better think again."

He leaned over and wiped a speck of whipped cream from the corner of her mouth.

"I'll have my dessert later," he murmured, then kissed her bottom lip.

* * * * * * *

An hour later they were on the road home -- the Rover stuffed with food, paint, books, and a very large rocking horse.

It was a pleasant evening. The air was soft with the promise of an early spring. Nikita had drifted off to sleep. Michael caught a whiff of chocolate as she snuggled against him. She still had a smudge of it on her chin, and he moistened his thumb and wiped it off. It tasted so sweet as he licked his thumb clean. He wanted more - much more - of his "chocolate Nikita." It was a good thing they were almost home. The engine roared as he pressed down on the accelerator.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of the house. He killed the engine and looked down at Nikita. She was nestled against his shoulder, dead to the world.

(She sleeps so peacefully. How does she do that?)

A wave of protectiveness swept over him, and he touched his lips to her forehead. His nostrils flared as he breathed in her scent. Desire lanced through him, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on her shoulder.

"Are we home?" She yawned and stretched. He admired the view as her blouse tightened across her outthrust breasts. Of its own volition, his hand snaked over and cupped her breast possessively. She didn't seem to mind, though.

He had to clear his throat before answering.

"Yes."

She leaned over and kissed him then, sucking his lower lip into her mouth. Her hand found its way unerringly to his crotch, and she stroked him through the fabric of his pants, weighing and measuring the size of his arousal.

His hips arched reflexively toward the source of that delightful pressure.

"Hmm," she purred, "I think we'd better unpack the car first, don't you?"

"It can wait."

"How long?"

"Longer than I can," he moaned in her ear.

* * * * * *

They had gotten as far as the sofa before Michael had made it clear he really couldn't wait any longer. They had undressed one another, clumsy in their haste, and he had thrust into her at once, groaning out her name as she instantly tightened around him.

(We're home all right,) she chuckled to herself. (And boy, what a trip!)

Although the first urgency had passed, they remained joined, reveling in the occasional involuntary spasms which always followed. This time, though, the spasms increased in frequency, and before either of them realized it, they were riding a second wave of pleasure even more intense than the first.

"Wow, what was THAT!" Nikita gasped out when she had recovered enough to speak.

Michael shook his head, still unable to catch his breath enough to answer her. A drop of sweat poised on the end of his nose dropped onto her lips, and her tongue flicked out to lick up the salty taste of him. She wiped his face with her sleeve. He collapsed on top of her, and she could feel the pounding of his heart. It slowed gradually, and his breathing steadied. Finally, he replied,

"I think that was what baseball players call a 'double-header.'"

"Well then, I guess we proven that old axiom," she countered. "Two heads are DEFINITELY better than one!"

"Okay, that's it," she groaned. "We have to get up and unload the car. It's getting dark, and I heard on the radio this morning that there's a chance of snow tonight."

Michael sighed and rolled off her. "Ooof!" He grunted as he ended up on the floor. He had forgotten they weren't in bed.

"Are you all right?" She peered down at him.

"I don't know," he moaned pitifully. "I may have injured myself and be unable to help you unpack."

"Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry!" She rejoined. "It's a shame we won't be able to play any more ball until you've recovered."

"I'm a fast healer."

"Really?"

"Yes. In fact, I feel better already. I think I might actually be able to assist you after all."

"I'm happy to hear it. Now get up."

* * * * * *

It took them nearly an hour to empty the car. The horse seemed heavier than when they had loaded it, and after wrestling it out of the back of the vehicle and lugging it up the steps, they stood in the foyer trying to figure out where to put it.

"Nikita, I am not going to carry this horse upstairs."

"But . . . ."

"No."

"Well where do YOU suggest we put it?"

He looked around the main room. She was right. There was no good place for it. Besides, it would be too much of a "conversation piece" if they had visitors. He groaned at the thought of Walter's or Birkoff's wisecracks about it. Madame Beaullieu had already given him a taste of what to expect. He sighed, resigned.

"In any case, I am not going to carry it upstairs now. We'll solve this problem tomorrow."

She smiled, mollified. She knew the perfect place for it.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"I don't believe this." His voice was a dangerous monotone.

She didn't answer. She was too busy.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

With every swing of the mallet another hole appeared in the bedroom wall.

"Nikita!"

She noticed him for the first time. She turned to face him, blowing her hair out of her eyes. Runnels of sweat streaked the plaster dust she was covered in. She looked beautiful.

(Merde!)

"Yes, Michael?"

He nearly choked, he was so angry. He took several deep breaths to calm himself.

(I should have anticipated this. She has always enjoyed demolition work. Every apartment Section gave her, she 'renovated' to suit herself. But THIS! This is a four-hundred year old house! Sacre bleu! Mais, c'est un sacrilege!)

"I would have appreciated your consulting me before you began this project." He spat out the last word.

She stood there, silently gauging his mood. He was furious.

(Oh oh! Quel faux pas - What a mistake!) she realized.

"You're absolutely right, Michael," she said in a subdued voice, opting for discretion rather than valor. "I should have. I'm just not accustomed to living with anyone, and I was thoughtless. If you'd like, I'll fix everything back just the way it was."

Her eyes were guileless. And so blue.

He wasn't fooled for a minute. She was too talented an actress. After all, he'd trained her himself. Still, she did look repentant. And beautiful. (Focus!) he reminded himself in desperation. It was no use. She had outmaneuvered him again. This was becoming alarming. What was the matter with him?

She must have read his mind. Or his face. He worried about that too. Every time he looked in the mirror lately, he saw more cracks in the facade he had crafted so carefully and depended upon for so long. He found it increasingly difficult to hide his thoughts and feelings from her, and from himself. He was terrified.

His suspicions were confirmed when she came over, put her arms around him, and murmured in his ear.

"Don't be afraid of me, Michael. I love you. I won't leave you. And I really am sorry about the wall. I'll repair the damage."

All the tension drained out of him at once. He couldn't fight her any more. He needed her too much. He almost burst into tears.

"Never mind," he heard himself say. "Now that you've begun, you might as well finish this." (God help me, I can't deny her anything.)

She moved back to arm's length and beamed at him.

"You'll see, Michael. You'll like it. I promise." And she crossed her heart and raised her hand, palm out, as if swearing an oath.

He looked back at the wall. Then at her. . . . His cello. He needed to play. Now.

"I'll be downstairs. Call out if you need anything."

* * * * * *

Playing helped. In the music he felt safe enough to let everything go -- to float away on an ebbing tide. It had always been the one emotional outlet he allowed himself. He had learned to play as a child, and for a while his parents had hoped he would make it his career. They had been assured that he had the talent and the focus, and he might indeed have followed their wishes for him. But with their deaths his course altered, and the rest was history. Still, this was one gift that he had insisted on keeping for himself, and those he had served all these years had come to recognize the wisdom of his decision. It made him the best there was. He might not believe it right now, but that hadn't changed.

* * * * * *

Upstairs, Nikita had finished demolishing the wall separating the bedroom from the unfinished loft space just beyond. Evidently, the original builder had run out of money to finish the entire second story, so he had partitioned off what he needed and never gotten around to the rest. For whatever reason, succeeding generations had also ignored it. And Michael had never spent enough time here to investigate the discrepancy between the inner and outer dimensions of the house. But Nikita had. It was her habit to explore every nook and cranny of any refuge she found, and this farmhouse had been no exception. A few days ago, she had reached the conclusion that there HAD to be a hidden room upstairs. She hadn't mentioned it to Michael yet. She didn't know why, exactly. Perhaps she still needed some safe, secret place all her own. But when he had bought her the horse, she knew just where it belonged.

In silence she contemplated the fruit of her labor so far. Now that the wall was down, she could see what she had to work with. She stepped through into the loft. She estimated its size as about 15 by 30 feet. From in here she could see the cross-hatch pattern of the ancient roof beams, as well as the brick chimney -- a sturdy column rising in the middle of the open space. She stretched out her arms and twirled slowly, her head thrown back, aglow with the thrill of discovery. Oh yes indeed, this had possibilities!

She found a piece of limestone and drew a circle on the oak floorboards. She sat down in the middle of the circle. Here was where the horse would stand. Closing her eyes, she rocked back and forth, imagining herself astride that magnificent creature. She was Guinevere, and Sir Lancelot had his arms around her as together they rode to Camelot. Only he had Michael's face.

She heard music. Was it part of her fantasy? No, it was Michael playing the cello, down below. The sound drifted up through the chimney and echoed in the hollow loft. She settled down to listen, and as always, she heard his voice in the music. Not what he said out loud, but what he couldn't say. And as always, she answered in the only way she knew how. She went to him.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Do you want some lunch?"

He shook his head and kept on playing. This had been going on for hours, and his face and hands were slippery with sweat. That didn't seem to affect his performance, from what Nikita could tell. The music that poured out of the cello was as vibrant as any she had ever heard from him. She peeked over his shoulder to see what he was playing now. Ravel's "Pavane Pour Une Enfante Defunte - Pavane for a Dead Child?" She wasn't sure of the translation, but considering recent events she wouldn't be surprised if that was correct.

As the last note died away, she placed her hand on his shoulder. Enough was enough.

"Michael? Why don't you take a break? Let's go for a drive."

"Where to?"

(Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound). "Bienville."

He froze. The bow hung suspended over the strings.

(No! I can't! It was so cold there. Why is it so hot in here? I can't breathe! Why . . . ?)

Nikita caught him as he tilted sideways out of the chair. The cello clunked to the floor, but he kept a death-grip on the bow. She eased him down onto the floor. His skin was clammy, and his face was stark white. He took in a gasping breath -- the first since she had mentioned Bienville. After another few seconds, his eyes opened, and he stared at her dazedly.

"What happened?"

"I'm no doctor, Michael, but it looked to me like you just had a full-blown panic attack and fainted.

"I don't panic."

"You don't snore either, do you."

Tears blurred his vision. "Why is this happening?"

She smiled reassuringly.

"That's an easy question to answer. Because you've had all you can take. And more. It isn't a matter of strength of will. You're a human being, and your mind and body are going to do what they have to do to survive. Just now, that meant shutting down to 'reboot', as Birkoff would say. I'm sorry that it was something I said that caused this. I wish I could learn to keep my big mouth shut and leave you alone."

He held up his arms. "Please, Nikita, don't leave me alone."

She dropped down beside him and put her head on his chest. "I won't, Michael I swear. I won't."

She felt him relax. His breathing deepened, and when she looked up, he was asleep. Tears still shimmered on his eyelashes.

She was afraid if she moved he would wake up, so she willed herself to relax as well. (A nap won't hurt. It's hard work, knocking down walls.)

* * * * *

She woke up to music. A smoky blues recording from the forties -- "Someone to Watch Over Me." She smiled and stretched. Sat up and looked around.

(Where is he?)

The door opened and he came in carrying an armload of firewood. His face had regained its color. He dropped the wood into the box beside the hearth, then squatted down in front of her. He smiled as he tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Did you have a good sleep?"

She smiled at him. "Yeah, I did. And guess what?"

"You're hungry."

"Yup."

"That's why I've cooked dinner. If you would care to join me . . .?"

He stood and pulled her up after him. There was a delicious aroma wafting in from the kitchen. The table was set. He lit candles, poured Merlot into glasses, and dished up the chicken sauce piquante he had prepared. The rich tomato sauce was chunky with bell pepper, onion and mushrooms. He served it over rice, with petit pois - those tiniest of green peas - as a side dish.

She had three helpings.

* * * * * *

"Perhaps you would feel more comfortable if you loosened your clothing?"

She eyed him with suspicion.

"There wouldn't be an ulterior motive in that suggestion, would there? Because I'm telling you right now, I'm stuffed. You'd be taking a big chance in jostling me for at least another hour."

"Of course not. I'm only thinking of you."

"That's good." She leaned back and unfastened the top button of her jeans. "Ahhh, that IS better," she sighed.

His eyes immediately locked on the white lace peeking through the opening in her pants. He cleared his throat. His chair creaked as he shifted uneasily. The sound alerted her, and she caught his eye warningly. He jumped up.

"I'll clear the table. Why don't you light a fire?"

"I thought I already had," she snickered, nodding at the evidence of his desire."