She blinked – and opened her eyes to see the Thames stretched out in front of her. The brick work was rough against her hands, the wrought iron dolphins grotesque and garish up close. She blinked rapidly, stepping back from the wall and looking around herself.

Hammersmith – her mind provided, although her thoughts seemed a fog of uncertain images and words. To her left, Hammersmith Bridge, the huge Victorian monstrosity. In front of her, the River.

What was she doing in Hammersmith?

She looked to her right, seeing pedestrians sauntering casually along the path. There were two pubs down there, she knew. Two pubs, where...

But the thought slid away, slippery and elusive, and her fogged mind couldn't follow it.

Why was she in Hammersmith? She should go home, before...

Before what? She stood still, reaching for the rough brickwork of the wall again as she tried to steady herself. How had she got here?

Why was she here?

Who...?

Who was she?

There were car keys in her hand. A single key hanging from a black fob. So she'd driven here then? From where? Was she going somewhere else? Meeting someone? Running away?

Questions – all she had were questions. She raised a hand to her head, trying to stop the reeling of her mind, dizzy with confusion and rising panic.

Questions. And not one damned answer.

She stared at her forearm, a frown creasing her forehead. Slowly, she reached out to stroke the silvery scars running down her arm, noticing for the first time the matching tracks down her other arm. She traced the lines first on one arm and then the other. How could she have scars like this and not remember where she had got them?

"Are you alright?"

She looked up sharply, meeting the concerned look of the passing jogger. The man was tall, blond hair damp with perspiration clinging to his face and neck. Grey eyes watched her with concern.

She stared at him for a few seconds as his words registered. Just as genuine fear started to tinge his expression, she forced a quick smile. "I'm fine, thank you," she said, her voice sounding far stronger than she thought possible. "Just a dizzy spell."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded, regretting the head movement as her vision swam again. "No, really," she insisted, forcing herself to let go of the wall and stand up straighter.

The man watched her cautiously, but obviously keen to be on his way again. "Well, okay then," he said, sounding uncertain. "I'll be back this way in about another ten or fifteen minutes, okay?"

She must look truly terrifying to instil such concern in a complete stranger, she realised with a pang of guilt. "Please, I'll be fine," she repeated. "Feeling better already."

He nodded, although his expression looked far from convinced. "Okay then. 'Bye." He jogged slowly off, turning back briefly as the distance grew between them. She forced herself to remain standing upright, hiding the tremors threatening to overwhelm her.

She looked down at the key still clutched in her hand. Four interlocking circles stared back at her. An Audi then. Shouldn't be too hard to find.

"Hardly subtle."

"Subtlety wasn't a consideration when I bought it."

She blinked. The last voice had been her own, she knew that. The first voice had been male - husky, warm, and sharp. A Midlands twang to the attack. Even as her mind sought the details, the fog descended, blanking out the train of thought. The memory faded like mist, and she stood staring down at the key again as though trying to work out what it was for.

Audi. Her mind supplied again. Audi Quattro.

Before any links could form in the chain of memory, she turned on her heel and scanned the nearby parked cars. A white Quattro gave her a pull of the familiar, and she made for it without questioning the instinct. The key fitted the lock, and when she slid into the driver's seat, it already matched her proportions. She closed the door, cocooning herself inside, and sighed.

Now what?

The engine roared to life, and she negotiated the afternoon traffic with ease. The automatic, instinctive reactions relaxed her. She could do this; this was something she understood. She didn't have to think about who, what or where. Just the smooth change of gears, the gentle braking, the feel of the road through the wheel telling her everything she needed to know.

Tiredness suddenly overwhelmed her. She glanced at the dashboard clock – 6.20. She didn't know how long she had been driving, but that was just another addition to the long list of things she didn't know. Her heavy eyelids and the lethargy turning her limbs to lead couldn't be ignored, however. She had to deal with this annoying physical weakness.

She caught sight of her surroundings. She was still in London, she realised. If she didn't think too hard, if she didn't try to pin down her thoughts and reasons, she could find what she wanted. And what she wanted right now was a shower and bed.

A street of hotels stretched out in front of her. She let the car lead her through the motions, parking smoothly and killing the engine. She sat gripping the wheel firmly, far more firmly than she had when she had been driving.

Now what?

Money. She needed money for a hotel room.

She glanced around the car uncertainly, before her eyes alighted on the black leather coat thrown across the back seat. She reached for it, her mind automatically recognising it as hers. She soon found a purse, patting down the rest of the pockets for any other clues but finding nothing.

The purse didn't give much else away. She had cash – a couple of hundred in notes, she estimated – and two bank cards. Her fingers trembled as she withdrew the cold rectangles of plastic in search of her name.

Annabel Slade

She adjusted the rear view mirror to stare into the face looking back at her. She examined herself critically for a few seconds. Annabel Slade. No, it didn't feel right. But that was the name on the card. It just didn't fit the dark blue, almost violet, eyes staring back at her.

She put the mirror back to normal and left the car, locking it automatically. Nothing about her steady, determined walk to the hotel betrayed either her sudden tiredness or the panic still fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She smiled at the door man as he gave her a polite welcome and nod, holding the door for her as she passed through into the cool, elegant interior. The smooth cream marble floors, tasteful light coloured walls, and ornate cornices gave a fleeting sense of the familiar, a brief flutter of deja vu, which disappeared as quickly as it surfaced. She made for the dark green marble desk, the bright, false smile on the pretty blonde fixed and perfect as she greeted her.

"May I help you, madam?"

"A room, please."

She waited while the receptionist performed alchemy with the books, flicking pages and checking numbers. "Classic or Executive?"

She shrugged, feeling the beginnings of a headache stab her forehead. "Classic," she replied. She handed over the credit card, signing the slip and taking the key without registering the procedures. She just wanted to get to the room and rest. Finally, the empty smile was fixed back in place and she realised the receptionist had finished.

"Do you have any pain killers, please?" she asked, rubbing her temples distractedly. The smile faltered slightly as the receptionist affected sympathy.

"I can have some sent to your room, Miss Slade?" she offered solicitously.

Annabel nodded. "Yes, please," she replied, turning from the desk and making for the stairs. The receptionist watched her carefully, wondering why the woman had no luggage, carried nothing but the black leather jacket clutched in one hand, before shrugging and ringing for a bell boy to run the errand.

Annabel entered the room, scanning the contents carefully. Her head pounded mercilessly. She left the key on the nearby desk, placing her coat across the back of the chair, and drew the curtains, shutting out the last of the daylight. The room finally swathed in semi-darkness, she staggered to the bed, lying down full length and letting her weight sink into the mattress. Fatigue made her feel heavy and sluggish, but at the same time light-headed. Pain lanced through her, like lightning behind her eyes.

She twitched, the sudden sensation of falling catching her on the brink of sleep, jolting her awake again. Her eyes opened wide, her headache blossoming at the sudden light even in the dim room. She tried to relax back into the mattress, forcing herself to breathe slowly, to calm the hammering of her heart. She had almost succeeded when the light knock at the door brought her back to wakefulness. She stifled a groan, reaching for her purse and pulling out a note.

The bell boy, bright-eyed, acne-scarred and rake thin, greeted her with an obliging smile, brandishing Aspirin. She managed a smile of acknowledgement, handing him the five pound note and insisting on him keeping the change as she took the tablets gratefully. As soon as the formalities were completed, she closed the door and returned to the bed. The aspirin was bitter as she swallowed them dry, but she simply wanted relief from the pounding, blinding pain that throbbed behind her eyes. She lay back on the bed, curling the duvet around her, and waited for them to work.

"We've got plenty of time," Macklin insisted as Maggie growled and groused at the slow trail of traffic. The Quattro purred throatily, crawling through the streets at an enforced snail's pace.

"Bloody Prime Minister," she grumbled, not quite under her breath. "Wants the service but doesn't want to pay for it."

"Same as it ever was," Macklin said calmly. "It was ever thus." He smiled at her, her face set in a scowl of pique, her lips a thin, tight line. "You just don't like the woman," he teased.

"Can't stand her," she agreed vehemently. "The day the old bat dies, I full intend digging her up to make sure, and sticking a stake in the bitch."

"That's quite possibly treason."

"Good. I've not tried that one yet. It'll look good on my CV."

"It'll be the same old arguments," Macklin said more calmly than he felt. Budgets were always a nuisance; a delicate play of diplomacy and tact. Brian Macklin always felt the need for a bath in bleach afterwards. Consequently, he was usually more than happy to leave the finances to Cowley. But the Prime Minister liked men of action, liked to pretend she was the personification of Britannia herself, Macklin thought with distaste. And he suspected there were times when her gung-ho attitude left Cowley with a sour taste. Which is why the canny old war-horse had asked his wily fellow Scot to the meeting, hoping the combination would provide enough of a pander to her ego.

Maggie, however, was not happy. Not happy with the traffic, not happy with the servile attitude expected from the two men she respected most in the world. It was demeaning, disrespectful. Both Cowley and Macklin had bled for their country, lived for it, and had been prepared to die for it. To her mind, that deserved better treatment than this bowing and scraping at the whim of the woman who held the purse strings. Macklin knew her anger was on his behalf, and on behalf of Cowley, and he couldn't in all conscience criticise her for it.

Cowley had arranged for a helicopter to take him to Chequers from Docklands, the former industrial site providing an ideal spot to land the small yellow and white helicopter. The CI5 controller had decided to make his own way to Chequers, to meet Macklin there at the designated time. Which is why Maggie was negotiating the hectic traffic of the Capital, and why she was in such a bad mood.

She pulled up, stopping smoothly and killing the engine. He watched her, sensing a deeper sadness behind her almost juvenile petulance. She stared at her hands on the steering wheel, her mouth turning down at the edges.

"Maggie."

Her eyes swivelled sideways to look at him before her head turned reluctantly to face him. Her violet blue eyes were huge in her pale face.

He reached out, a tender smile curling his lips as he stroked her cheek gently. "I won't be long."

"I know," she said softly. "I just want to get home."

"Well, you can go now."

A flash of annoyance crossed her face. "Both of us," she said sharply. "I want both of us home. In the Lake District." She closed her eyes briefly, leaning into his touch with a heavy sigh. "I'm tired, Brian," she admitted unwillingly.

His gun callused fingers stroked her velvet soft cheek. "I know," he murmured seriously. "Not long now." He leaned towards her, his hand sliding to the back of her head, pulling her towards him for a slow, gentle kiss.

He pulled away reluctantly, staring down into her face with an affectionate look. His thumb stroked against the back of her neck gently. "I love you," he said earnestly.

She smiled. "Go on with you, you sentimental bastard."

He grinned, giving her cheek one last caress before getting out of the car. She got out to watch him as he uncoiled from the car. He straightened his tie methodically, smoothing the silk flat against the white cotton shirt as he adjusted his suit jacket. She smiled indulgently, watching him as he closed the door and checked his pristine cuffs.

"I could get jealous," she said archly.

He flashed her a wry smile. "There's not enough money in the gross national output to pay for that."

"I'll pick you up at five, then," she said.

He looked at her, strangely unwilling to leave her, even for a few hours. She looked vulnerable suddenly. A shiver of presentiment slid down his spine, but he shrugged it away. "That'll be perfect," he agreed. "I'll see you then."

He flashed her one last smile, before turning and striding along the deserted wharf. She watched as he disappeared behind the derelict warehouses, following his smooth long-legged stride and feeling the familiar curl of warmth inside her. She grinned. There was no getting away from it – Brian Macklin owned her, body and soul. Even after all this time, she still felt a shiver of anticipation when she looked at him, a jolt of surprise that could bring a ridiculous grin to her face for no other reason than she loved him, and he loved her. It was absurdly romantic – here they were, the sentimental mercenaries.

She heard the familiar chopping sound of the rotors start up behind the buildings, and watched as the small yellow and white helicopter rose from behind the grey concrete and red brick. Watched as it steadily gained height, all the time feeling the same ludicrous glow of tenderness at the memory of his lips on hers, his fingers gently stroking the back of her neck.

The helicopter hesitated in the blue sky. She frowned, barely having time to register the subtle change in pitch from the rotors, before the engine coughed and died, and the helicopter fell like a stone out of the blue London sky.

The explosion crested the roof of the warehouses, billowing black smoke of burning oil and the acrid smell of fuel amongst the orange fireball that burned her retinas.

Maggie blinked. And died inside.

Annabel awoke with a start, her heart pounding frantically in her chest, tears streaming down her eyes. She wiped them away with a frown of confusion, the nightmare that had jolted her awake fading like morning dew. All she could remember were flames, bright orange and black against the blue sky. And the sound of screaming that still echoed around her mind.

She blinked rapidly. It was much darker than when she had closed her eyes, but the headache seemed to have returned as soon as she had woken. She switched on the bedside lamp, barely able to stand even the dim, warm yellow glow it gave the room. She ran her hand through her hair distractedly, tasting foul nausea as she swallowed with difficulty.

A rapid knock echoed through the room, and she realised she had heard the sound earlier. She frowned, not knowing what or who it could be. Had she ordered room service? They had brought the pain killers she'd asked for, she was sure. She could still taste the bitter medicine. Slowly, carefully, she pulled herself off the bed and made for the door, mindful of the pain still lancing her head.

She opened the door to find a short, wiry man with receding sandy hair, alongside a tall, darkly handsome man with blue eyes and a kind smile on his face. She blinked, stepping backwards in surprise. The pain in her head was becoming unbearable, wiping out any thoughts.

"Maggie?" The older man growled in a strangely familiar Scottish brogue.

She staggered another few steps backwards, the reeling dizziness sweeping through her making her movements unsteady, uncoordinated.

The two men entered the room, staring at her with a look she couldn't quite recognise. She wanted to ask what was happening, why were they calling her Maggie? But her tongue stuck to the roof of her suddenly dry mouth, her lips numb and unresponsive. She raised a shaky hand to her head, swaying precariously.

Another man entered the room, appearing behind the two men. A tall, blond haired man, powerfully built, with steel-blue eyes that looked at her in alarm. She stared at him, feeling her stomach churn and spasm violently, threatening to vomit any second. Without any conscious thought, the hand she held to her head began to bang steadily and rhythmically against the side of her head, not quite hard enough to hurt, but in a strangely compulsive way that belied her lack of choice in the matter.

"Maggie?" The blond man's voice echoed around her head, his face swimming in and out of focus.

Without warning, blackness overwhelmed her, and she collapsed; a puppet whose strings had been viciously slashed.

Macklin dived forward to catch her, reaching her a split second before Murphy. He effortlessly collected the unconscious body in his strong arms before she could hit the floor. He lowered her gently, settling her in his arms and stroking her face as he cradled her on the floor.

He looked up to Cowley, a frown creasing his handsome features. "What the hell has happened?" he demanded.

Macklin turned the corner of the derelict warehouse to find the small yellow and white helicopter already waiting, its rotors turning idly. A movement to his left caught his attention, the long stride faltering as he recognised the rake thin figure of Willis.

The MI6 executive looked uncomfortable as Macklin approached. Behind Willis, Luke Peterson nodded a cautious welcome. A short, stocky, blond MI6 agent that Macklin's flawless memory recognised as Paul Lloyd stood beside Willis. All three men wore pristine grey suits, and ties in various shades of blue.

"What are you doing here?" Macklin demanded. The MI6 controller had never been more than barely tolerated by Macklin in the past, but in recent months his dislike had blossomed into something far more vicious.

Willis pretended not to notice the glint of hatred in the steel blue gaze that bored into him. "State business, Brian," he replied primly. "I've arranged for the pilot to fly me to a meeting."

"Chequers, Willis?" Macklin sneered.

"I'm not at liberty..."

"Shove it. I'm not interested in your pathetic excuses," Macklin snarled. "It's a two seater chopper. Perhaps you'd care to venture a suggestion as to how all four of us plan to use it to get there?"

Willis glanced at his watch, licking his lips nervously. Behind him, Luke Peterson hid a smile at his controller's obvious nervousness. Macklin clearly despised the man, and Brian Macklin was not a good enemy to have.

"You were supposed to obtain your own transport to Chequers," Macklin continued remorselessly. "Not hijack my lift."

Willis gave a weak, conciliatory smile. "It's more efficient to share, surely?"

"Two helicopter trips? Instead of one?" Macklin scoffed. He gave a harsh laugh as Willis flushed angrily, interrupting him before he could stammer out any more platitudes. "Forget it, Willis. You want the chopper, it's yours," he growled. "But why you brought two of your pets when it's a two-seater, I've no idea. So you'll have to leave one behind with me, won't you?"

Willis glared from behind his glasses. "So it would seem," he snapped, trying to pull his tattered dignity together. He turned to his men. "You – with me."

Macklin watched as the two men approached the waiting helicopter, the pilot prompting the rotors to full speed.

"For an intelligent man, your boss can be very stupid at times," he remarked coldly.

"Never so stupid as when he pissed you off though, was he?" Luke replied steadily.

They watched as the small helicopter rose into the sky. And when it plummeted back down to the ground, the explosion threw both men off their feet.

Macklin entered the house, the high pitched whistle in his ears and crispy ends of his hair his only injuries from the blast. His suit stank of burning plastic and fuel, and he wasn't sure whether dry cleaning would quite be enough. The clear up operation had taken hours – hours where his hearing had gradually returned, but nothing had cleared the banging headache left by the deafening explosion.

Willis, Lloyd and the unfortunate pilot were dead – engulfed in a scorching fire ball that melted man and machine together until nothing and no-one could tell where one ended and the other began. As much as Macklin had hated Willis, he hadn't wanted to see the man incinerated in front of him.

Well – not often.

He glanced at his watch. Six o'clock. Maggie had obviously left the car park before the explosion and he hadn't seen the need to let her know what had happened. There hadn't been time in any event. The budget meeting had been cancelled, Cowley recalled to central London to assume the temporary mantle of Willis' position until further notice. Making statements, asking questions, sifting through charred mess and smoking ruins. No-one knew the cause as yet. Terrorism was the obvious suspect, and the status of alert had been raised in all government offices as a precaution. No-one had claimed responsibility, and there had been no prior warning, which tended to rule out the usual suspects. But that didn't mean there weren't new kids on the block wanting to make their mark on the British secret service.

Macklin frowned. Even with the whine that only he could hear, the house seemed unnaturally quiet. He paused at the foot of the stairs, trying to listen past the tinnitus, but hearing nothing. He mounted the stairs, unfastening his black silk tie as he did so.

The bedroom was empty. Nothing had changed since they had left that morning. Sloughing off the ruined jacket, Macklin made his way back downstairs and searched the rooms. Nothing. No-one. No Maggie.

His gaze fell on the oak sideboard beside the front door, a dumping ground for post and keys as they entered the house. The only keys there were his house keys, the keys for the house in the Lake District, and the keys for the Jaguar and Land Rover. No sign of Maggie's keys. No sign of the Quattro key.

Something felt wrong. He reached for the telephone, wondering whether she had heard something after all and had gone to CI5 to find out the details. The telephone started to ring just as he laid his hand on it.

"Macklin." He frowned, the unnaturalness of the situation ringing alarm bells. His frown deepened as he listened to the voice on the other end of the telephone.

Macklin strode beside Cowley through the corridors, willing the limping man faster. "What's she doing at Park Lane?"

"If it's her," Cowley growled. "All we've had is a report of a white Audi Quattro, left hand drive, going through three red lights in Central London. The police car radioed it in, and found that the plates were restricted. And they wanted to know whether one of our cars has been stolen or involved in something of which they were not aware."

"If it's not Maggie driving the car..."

"Aye," Cowley interrupted the angry flow of words from the usually calm Macklin. He turned to glance at his friend, wondering what they would find when they finally tracked down whoever it was that had driven that car. Maggie wasn't fool enough to draw attention to herself by running a red light. Once was accident. Twice was happenstance. But three times was enemy action.

"The police followed the driver to a hotel in Park Lane. They radioed through the details. So why don't we go and find out what's going on?" Cowley said, a grim look in his dark grey eyes.

If Maggie wasn't there, who had stolen her car? And if Maggie was there, why was she there? And did this have anything to do with the death of Willis?

Macklin strode into the foyer of the hotel, his keen eyes scanning the area for any sign of Maggie or threat. He recognised the layout immediately; he and Maggie had stayed here once, almost a year ago now.

The blonde receptionist greeted them with her painted on smile. Cowley, ever the gentleman, gave a warm smile in return, before reaching into his inside pocket and producing a photograph of Maggie.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I hope so." Cowley's warm Scottish brogue offered reassurance and inspired confidence. He slid the photograph on top of the cold green marble desk. "Have you seen this woman?"

The receptionist's smile faded as she began to stammer the hotel's policy on confidentiality, but Cowley calmed her with another warm smile. "I'm George Cowley. CI5," he said, producing his identity card and holding it out for her consideration.

A look of concern crossed her face. "Is there some problem?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

Cowley shook his head quickly. "Not at all, not at all," he reassured her. He could sense Macklin's tension, the man beside him almost electric with impatience. "We'd just like to ask her some questions, if she's here."

The woman pursed her lips carefully, clearly considering her options, before reaching for the admissions book. "She came in about two hours ago," she admitted, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur as she scoured the book for the relevant entry. "Here," she said at last, indicating the signature with a polished nail.

Cowley and Macklin leaned across the desk to inspect the writing. "Annabel Slade," Cowley read slowly, peering down his nose in lieu of using his glasses. He turned to Macklin with a questioning look. "Mean anything to you?"

Macklin felt his pulse quicken. "Yes," he said, his voice clipped and sharp. "It's Maggie."

Cowley checked the room number quickly, before nodding his thanks to the receptionist and sliding the book back across the marble towards her. "Thank you very much, miss," he said. "There's absolutely nothing to be concerned about. The woman is no danger at all."

They strode quickly to the lifts, Murphy only a few paces behind. "No danger at all?" Macklin repeated with disbelief. "You are joking, aren't you?"

Cowley flashed him a prim look as they entered the lift. "Did you want to tell her she's got an assassin in her hotel?" he demanded as the doors closed behind them.

Murphy rapped his knuckles on the hotel room door, rattling a tattoo of greeting. "Are you quite sure it's Maggie, sir?" he asked as they waited.

Cowley gave him a sharp look. "It had better be," he growled. Murphy nodded his understanding. No-one wanted to explain to Brian Macklin that Maggie had disappeared. Not at close quarters at least.

A muffled cry sounded from behind the room door, and Murphy frowned, glancing at Cowley for instructions. Cowley hesitated for a second, before indicating with a nod and quick gesture for Murphy to knock again. He did, slightly more firmly, and eventually the door handle turned.

Maggie stared at them, eyes glistening feverishly in a chalk white face. Her lips were pale, bloodless, but her eyes were red rimmed and blood shot. Her eyes seemed to sink into her skull, ringed in dark black circles like bruises. She shook uncontrollably, swaying as though drunk and about to collapse.

But the most frightening thing was the blank look in her glittering eyes. Dead, glassy, unresponsive.

She stepped backwards, more in fear it seemed than in welcome, and they entered the room, unsure of this strange creature that looked like Magpie but acted like someone very different.

"Maggie?" Cowley ventured gently.

She staggered back further, reaching up with one hand to stroke absently against her forehead. Murphy saw Macklin in the corner of his eye, and saw the white face turn even paler. He hadn't known such a thing was possible. Her eyes widened in sheer unbridled terror, and the hand against her head began to tap rhythmically against her skull.

Murphy began to step forward instinctively, the panic writ large on her face urging him to offer comfort, but before he could move, her eyes rolled back in her head until they were as white as her face, and she collapsed. Macklin caught her, moving so fast Murphy had barely registered him beginning, and gently laid her on the floor, cradling her in his lap and against his chest.

"What the hell has happened?" Macklin demanded angrily.

Brian Macklin looked tired and dishevelled, Kate Ross thought as she approached him. His white cotton shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing sleekly muscled forearms. He suddenly looked every one of his 44 years.

He leaned against the wall, his hands deep in the pockets of his dark grey trousers, his attention fixed on the door opposite him. He glanced at her as she approached, recognition in his eyes, but his gaze quickly returned to the door.

"Brian." She greeted him with a small smile of encouragement, noting the lines etched in his face. The broad shoulders hunched forward as though curling in on himself in pain. "How is she?"

"I don't know," he snapped. He shifted uncomfortably, aware that he was lashing out at the first available person, but unable to stop himself. He gave her an apologetic look, standing up and running a hand through his hair distractedly. She flashed a smile of understanding, and he knew he was forgiven.

"They won't let me see her," he said, his voice tight with worry and anger. "I've had to tell them all her details, but they won't tell me a damn thing. I don't even know if she's awake yet." The blue eyes were full of pain and anguish. "She could be dead in there, Kate, and they won't tell me."

She put her hand on his forearm, offering what reassurance she could. "They'll tell me, Brian," she said quietly, but firmly. "And whatever they tell me, I'll tell you."

"They won't let me see her," he repeated, a desperate note in his low growl.

She patted his arm gently. "Leave it to me," she said, a determined look in her brown eyes. She scanned his expression quickly, concerned at the unguarded despair she could see in his face. This was not the Brian Macklin she knew. He seemed angry at being prevented from seeing Maggie, and at the same time terrified of what he would find. The only way to solve this was to get answers.

She rapped a brisk tattoo on the ward door. The nurse who answered looked stressed, and obviously about to rattle off some admonishment. Macklin had probably been warned to be quiet or be removed from the premises, Kate reflected.

She gave the nurse a prim smile, holding her ID out in front of her before the woman could begin her tirade. "Dr. Ross. Ministry of Defence. I understand you're holding one of my patients."

Macklin watched as the nurse stepped aside to let Ross through, feeling a sweeping sense of impotence as the doctor effortlessly obtained entry where he had been refused so many times, and resigned himself to a possibly long wait until she returned.

Annabel sat upright in the hospital bed, glowering around her with a look of deep mistrust. They had removed the wires attaching her to the various machines surrounding her, and left her in this stark room – white walls, white ceiling, white light – while they stood in the room next door and talked about her. She could see them through the half glazed barrier between the two rooms.

Apparently, she wasn't Annabel Slade. Well, that didn't come as a huge surprise to her. The name had never seemed to fit with the face looking back at her in the mirror. The problem was she couldn't think what name would fit.

She slid off the bed, knowing the people in the room next door would be watching her every movement, and not caring. Deliberately ignoring them, she made for the small mirror positioned on the wall above the hand basin. She stared at the face looking back at her.

Maggie, the man had called her. Maggie.

"Maggie?"

She turned quickly, startled at the voice so accurately echoing her thoughts. A tall, slim woman watched her carefully, cool brown eyes assessing and calculating in a delicate face.

Ross noticed the suspicion in the violet eyes, and the near panic hovering beneath the surface. Maggie Draven was obviously terrified.

"So they tell me," Maggie/Annabel replied at last, a grudging note in her voice.

"Would you prefer me to call you Annabel?"

"I'd prefer to know who you are first," she snapped back, fear making her sound waspish and petulant.

Ross was not fazed by the sudden flash of temper; the doctors had told her the patient appeared prone to rapid mood swings, but as Maggie had always been like that, Ross was rather at a loss to be sure whether this was Maggie's normal behaviour or even worse than that.

"I'm Doctor Kate Ross. I work with CI5, MI6, MI5," she explained patiently.

"Psychiatrist?"

"Psychologist," she amended.

"Ah," Maggie replied. "Same spiel but without the expensive drugs."

Ross smiled and nodded briefly. "Something like that," she agreed. "Won't you sit down?" She gestured back to the bed, watching as Maggie weighed her options before following the suggestion.

"So my name really is Maggie?" she asked as she perched on the side of the bed.

Ross sat in the plastic chair in front of her. "It's more a nickname, so I understand," she said. "You and I don't really know each other that well, Maggie."

"So how are you supposed to make me better?" she demanded.

Ross gave a small shrug. "I can't," she admitted. "Only you can do that."

"That's not much help."

"What can you remember?" Ross asked gently. The woman in front of her seemed superficially like the Maggie Draven Ross had known, but somehow more vulnerable. Maggie Draven was sharp edges and bright alertness with a biting sardonic twist and a manner of almost insubordinate laziness behind the threat of danger. This Maggie, however, lacked that penetrating wit and acid tongue. She seemed fragile, frightened; far more the prey than the predator.

Maggie seemed to flinch slightly, a look of pain crossing the pale face. She frowned, reaching up to press her fingers against one side of her head, her breathing hitching sharply. Her jaw tightened. "I can't," she managed to stammer through clenched teeth.

Ross was on her feet immediately, reaching out to remove the hand from Maggie's head and stroke her hair reassuringly. "It's alright, Maggie," she soothed gently. "Don't force it. It will come when it's ready."

Maggie seemed to relax under her hand, the frown melting from her face, her breathing altering to deep gasps as she sought to regain control. "I try," she whispered. "But it keeps slipping away."

"It will take time," Ross said calmly.

The violet eyes turned to her, beseeching, wet with tears. "How long?" she pleaded.

Ross shook her head slowly. "Sometimes hours, sometimes a few days," she explained carefully. "We just have to be patient."

Maggie looked uncertain. "Am I patient person?" she asked.

Ross smiled. "I think you're going to have to be."

Macklin pushed himself away from the wall as the door opened, stepping forward to meet Kate Ross as soon as she appeared. "How is she?" he asked immediately.

Kate took his arm, gently steering him away from the door. He hesitated, not wanting to appear rude but unwilling to move too far away from the room that held Maggie.

Kate stared up into Macklin's face, seeing his desperate worry. "I have to talk to you, Brian," she said softly. "Away from here."

He glanced back to the door, the confusion in his blue eyes betraying his thoughts. "She won't go anywhere without you, I promise," she added. He stared at her, searching her face for any hint of falsehood. "I give you my word," she continued. "They won't let her out of the hospital without either you or me. That's a fact, Brian."

He allowed her to lead him away, his reluctance obvious. But she had news of Maggie, and for that, he would do whatever necessary. She refused all attempts to draw her into conversation until they had settled into the hard plastic chairs of the cafeteria, two scalding hot cups of tea between them.

Macklin leaned on the table top, the steaming tea placed between his elbows ignored and untouched.

"Kate, for God's sake," he said at last.

She sipped her tea, using the pause it gave to examine him carefully. "She's physically unharmed, Brian. But you must have realised that."

He nodded. "She collapsed."

Ross nodded, placing the cup back on its saucer. "Yes," she said. "But they've run all kinds of tests, scans – they can't find any physical cause for the collapse."

She watched as her words sank in. He seemed to relax, his relief almost tangible, before a frown of confusion crossed his face. "What happened to her?" he asked.

Ross looked down at her hands, trying to find the words to explain. "That's something we don't know," she began carefully.

"Why wouldn't they let me see her?" he demanded.

"Brian." She looked up at him, something in her dark brown eyes silencing him immediately. She sighed. "She doesn't remember you; she doesn't remember anything," she said at last. "She doesn't even know who she is."

Macklin blinked carefully and deliberately, searching for some sense in the words he was hearing. Ross continued, her voice gentle and reassuring.

"Something must have happened to her, Brian. Something that's induced what we call a fugue state. All she can remember is waking up in Hammersmith. She drove around for a while, found the hotel, and fell asleep. Then you found her."

"A fugue state?" Macklin repeated. "How?" The noises of the cafeteria seemed to dim and disappear into the distance. Maggie didn't remember him? How could that be? His heart hammered in his chest – there had to be a mistake. There had to be.

Ross shrugged. "We don't know. We may never know. But something happened that frightened her so much, she's shut down. Annabel Slade is the only name she had to go on, the name on the cards in her purse. She doesn't remember anything before waking up in Hammersmith – not her address, her date of birth – nothing. That's why the nursing staff and doctors had to get all her details from you."

"And why wouldn't they let me see her?" he repeated, anger giving his voice a darker tone.

Ross eyed him carefully. "They were protecting her, Brian. They don't know whether you're friend or foe. They only had your word to go on. And even then, a fugue state is a very delicate thing. Anything could push her deeper into it. She has to come out of it in her own time, her own way. Until we know what caused it, we have to be very careful about what she hears or sees."

Macklin felt dazed and confused, the background of the cafeteria and hospital nothing more than a ghostly shadow beyond the tunnel that comprised of Ross and the soft words she uttered. "How can she not remember me?" he asked, a plaintive note creeping into his voice. "How can she forget?"

"It's not as simple as forgetting," Ross explained gently. "It's more that it's too painful for her to remember. So her mind shuts it away."

Macklin sat back in his chair, his face creased with worry. "My helicopter exploded," he said slowly, trying to piece together anything that might help. He leaned forward again, suddenly animated. "I thought she'd gone, but if she saw the explosion." He hesitated, frowning again as he tried to follow the logic. "Why wouldn't she just check to see whether I was alright?" he asked at last.

Ross closed her eyes briefly, piecing together the fragments of information. "Maggie could have thought you were dead?" she asked at last, watching Macklin carefully for his reactions, for any hint of hidden thoughts or feelings.

He nodded, then shook his head almost immediately. "All she had to do was walk around the building. She would have seen I was alright."

Ross shook her head quickly. "It doesn't work like that," she explained rapidly. "Sudden shock, sudden trauma – something the brain just can't comprehend or cope with, and – snap." She clicked her fingers sharply to illustrate. "The brain shuts down in self-defence. If she doesn't have to think about what happened, it didn't happen. But the brain is a clever thing. It creates something to fill the gaps, so the body can at least function on a basic level. And that's who Annabel Slade is – she's Maggie's defence mechanism."

"So she didn't even remember me when she saw me?"

The despair in his eyes was almost painful to watch. Ross looked away, unable to see the agony in his look. "She collapsed," Ross said simply. "If Maggie has retreated, believing you dead, then suddenly being presented with you didn't fit in with her world view. In trying to mix the fact with the fiction, she blacked out. That would explain why she fainted."

Macklin shook his head, unable to hide his disbelief. "After everything Maggie has seen and done in her life, I wouldn't think she'd fall into a fugue state over something so trivial."

Ross started back in her seat, fixing him with a wide-eyed look of surprise. "Trivial, Brian? Thinking that you'd died in an explosion? Is that something that Maggie would find easy to cope with, do you think?" She leaned forward again. "I've seen you two together," she continued. "Maggie never takes her eyes off you, you know. She's entirely and utterly dependent upon you. If it weren't for the fact that you're just as bad, it could be seen as a rather unhealthy relationship."

"Unhealthy? How?" he demanded.

"Oh I'm sure it's all desperately romantic and wonderful in theory," Ross said, a sharp edge of anger in her voice. "But to be so wrapped up in one person to the exclusion of everything else is not healthy. There is no outlet for other emotions, no way of venting any frustrations found within the relationship itself."

"What frustrations?"

She shrugged. "There are bound to be, in any relationship, however strong, times when you need space from the other party. Where both parties are utterly dependent on each other, then no such breathing space is possible."

"We have breathing space," Macklin said through pursed lips. "And we're very good at working through any frustrations. This is a healthy relationship, Kate. Strong. It's complicated, but it's healthy. Don't try making it more complicated than it already is."

"My position is not helped by my ignorance of her past," Ross said carefully. She saw the flash of anger in Macklin's eyes, his immediate defensive reaction to any suggestion of threat to Maggie. She tried a conciliatory look, sheepish and reluctant. It wasn't idle curiosity that prompted her complaint. "If I'm to have any chance of helping Maggie out of this, I need to know about her," she continued, her voice quiet and firm. "Please, Brian. You have to help me, to help her."

He stared at her, his steel-blue eyes shadowed and guarded. "You don't know what you're asking," he said at last.

"I do," she replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I know it must be terrible. And I know you don't want to betray her. But you're not, Brian. You have to tell me." Ross tried to put as much conviction into her words as possible. This was important, vital to Maggie's possible rehabilitation. Somehow she had to make Macklin understand that.

"Whatever you say, whatever happened – she'll never know you told me," she continued. "No-one will ever know a word of it, I promise you. I won't write a thing down, and I won't even tell the doctors here. I give you my word."

Macklin hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek as he considered her words. "How can it possibly help?" he asked.

Ross shrugged, shaking her head. "I don't know," she replied honestly. "I can't say without knowing. I just need to consider all the options." She watched him carefully, seeing the torment inside him, torn between his need to protect Maggie, and his desperation to get her back at any cost. "Believe me, Brian, I wouldn't ask if I didn't need to know," she added gently.

Macklin closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, his head sagging down towards the table top. His thoughts reeled inside his head – Maggie didn't remember him; Maggie wasn't Maggie any more. It was like an awful nightmare, where everything certain in his life had been wrenched away from him, leaving him adrift and lost.

"If it helps, I do know that Maggie was once the Magpie," Ross offered, her voice a discreet whisper.

Macklin breathed slowly, listening to the steady in and out of his own lungs. Betray Maggie? But the person sat in that hospital room wasn't Maggie, may never be Maggie again unless he told Ross everything. If he held back – if he lied, even by omission – how would he know whether what he'd withheld could have been the vital link that brought her back to him?

"Maggie was brutally raped and tortured when she was 14 years old," he said in a harsh whisper, the words forced through unwilling lips. "Her father was murdered in front of her, and she was left for dead. She suffered severe internal injuries from the rape, and the injuries from being stabbed and strangled by the four men who raped her." He opened his eyes and stared into the murky tea. "Cowley sent her to me in Hong Kong for rehabilitation and protection. After three years, she ran away. Became the Magpie."

He heard a sharp intake of breath from Ross, causing him to lift his head to look at her at last. Her dark brown eyes were wide with shock; her mouth had fallen open in surprise. "After fourteen years of that, she was tortured by a woman she discovered was her mother, and a man who turned out to be her half-brother," he continued, watching the horror twist and pull at Kate's face. "So tell me, Kate," he said harshly. "Tell me how a woman who can do all that falls to pieces when a helicopter explodes?"

Ross closed her mouth, as though suddenly aware it had fallen open. She swallowed noisily. "Oh God," she breathed. She blinked, and tears filled her dark brown eyes. "Oh no."

Macklin gave a cold hard smile that held only desperation. "Oh no, Doctor Ross," he said. "Don't pity her. She hates it. Trust me on that score."

She shook her head. "No," she said at last, swallowing again with difficulty. "You don't understand." She sniffed, brushing away a tear that slid down her pale cheek.

Macklin frowned. "What?" he demanded, suddenly afraid of anything that could make Kate Ross shed a tear.

She took a deep breath, clearly trying to steady her emotions. "What you've described is highly traumatic," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "She obviously trusts you, needs you to deal with these issues. Which would explain her dependence on you, and therefore why believing you to have died so instantly, without any warning, could provoke such a dramatic breakdown." She paused, licking her lips nervously and unable to meet his gaze. "However," she continued, finding the words with difficulty. She swallowed again. "However," she repeated. "What we haven't considered is whether Maggie was quite herself even before this incident."

Macklin's frown deepened as his fear grew. "What are you talking about?" he asked, anxiety lending his voice an oddly gentle quality.

She raised her eyes to meet his again, sorrow in their depths. "We don't know whether Annabel Slade is Maggie's fugue state," she began, speaking slowly and deliberately. "Or whether Maggie Draven went into a fugue state at age 14 and the Magpie was her defence mechanism."

Macklin's blood chilled as her words sunk in. "Are you saying Annabel Slade is the real Maggie Draven?" he asked.

"I'm saying that we don't know," she said carefully. "But it's entirely possible that the trauma of believing you died hasn't sent Maggie into a fugue state. It may have brought her out of one. In which case, the person sat in that room is the real Maggie Draven." She watched Macklin's frozen features as he processed her meaning. "I'm sorry, Brian. I'm so sorry. But that would mean that the woman you've known for the last 18 years never existed. She'll never come back."

Macklin paced nervously outside the door. Kate Ross had been very patient, explaining herself meticulously and repeating herself without complaint when he had been unable or unwilling to understand. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare and let it all be over, because he knew the worst was yet to come. It was one thing to have Ross tell him that Maggie didn't know him, but to see it for himself would be hell.

And that was providing Maggie agreed to see him, and the medical staff allowed it.

The thought of someone physically preventing him from reaching Maggie raised his hackles. Ross had explained it was purely to protect Maggie, and he could see the logic of that. But he couldn't shake the bone-deep certainty that the one person capable – the only person allowed – to protect Maggie was him. It was irrational, possessive, irredeemably sexist perhaps, but it was unfailingly true in his heart, and it worked both ways.

But the thought of Maggie not wanting to see him was unbearable.

"You have to be gentle with her," Ross had said, provoking a flash of anger that anyone could think he could ever be otherwise with Maggie of all people. "The more you try to force her to remember, the more she will retreat. If you push too hard, you will lose her forever."

"Always assuming I haven't already," Macklin had growled, his heart heavy.

Ross had looked sympathetic. "We don't know, Brian," she said again. She had said that a lot. It seemed there wasn't an awful lot they did know.

But they all seemed to think they knew better than him.

The danger was if they were right, he knew. His instincts were to take her home; to surround her with normality and see what happened when it sank through her confused state. Ross had agreed it was a good idea. Keeping her in the strange hospital surroundings wasn't going to help, and in any event, there was nothing medically that could be done. Maggie needed time, and she needed people who understood her. Macklin knew there were precious few who fell into that category.

The door opened, stopping him in mid-stride as he stared – waiting – barely able to breathe. Kate peered around the door and smiled at him, beckoning him closer with a nod of her head.

"You can come in now, Brian," she said quietly.

His palms felt clammy and cold, his heart beating wildly in his throat. It was ridiculous. He had faced gun fights with calmer nerves.

Ross held the door open for him, an encouraging smile on her lips. He stepped through, suddenly nervous to be in the place he'd waited so long to enter. There was a small ante-room, a desk harbouring the nurse who had thwarted his previous attempts to see Maggie, and a doctor scanning paperwork, who cast him a quick look before returning to his notes.

"They're trying to keep everything as calm as possible," Ross explained in a whisper behind him. "But they need to be here in case she reacts badly."

"Is that likely?" he asked. Although he knew there was nothing physically wrong with Maggie, this careful monitoring and sheltering seemed to suggest there was some danger to her, something that perhaps he couldn't protect her from after all.

"We don't know," Ross said, the familiar refrain. He reined in his frustration. They couldn't know; no-one could. Not even him.

A door opposite led to the room he could see beyond the half glazed partition walling one room from the other. He could see Maggie sat on the side on the hospital bed, her head lowered as she watched her legs swing aimlessly to and fro.

"What is she expecting?" he asked, suddenly afraid.

Ross appeared beside him, looking up at him, her brown eyes serious. "You don't have to do this, Brian," she said firmly. "She is in good hands here, but we can have her in Repton -"

"No," he interrupted sharply, turning to her, his steel-blue eyes flashing. The doctor and nurse looked up quickly, assessing the situation, ready for anything. He swallowed, fighting his temper and his anxiety. "No," he repeated, his voice lower and softer. "I've dealt with her before, remember?" he said. "I know all of her moods. If there's anything different, anything at all, I'll know even before she does."

Kate looked at him, noting the determination and desperation in his eyes. She knew that she didn't deal with text book cases in her job. The people in her care were highly strung, their minds wired in some strange way that defied normal logic and parameters. It was what had drawn her to the job, and what kept her in it. Sometimes the people she saw went directly against everything she had been taught. It needed instincts combined with intelligence to even begin to understand these people. Macklin knew Maggie Draven like no-one else; he knew her strengths and weaknesses. Instinct told Kate Ross that if anyone could get through to Annabel Slade, it was Macklin.

Macklin would go through hell itself for Maggie Draven. He would face a thousand demons, whether his own or hers. And maybe that's what Maggie needed now, Ross thought – something no-one else could provide. Someone prepared to fight for her when she couldn't fight for herself.

"Go and talk to her," she urged softly. "We'll stay here, just in case."

He looked back to the slight figure sat on the bed, still swinging her legs with a strangely vulnerable, childish monotony.

He swallowed and approached the door.

Annabel looked up as the door opened, her legs immediately stopping their relentless swing. Macklin stood in the doorway, watching, waiting. Her eyes were wide and round in her pale face, childlike and innocent. She blinked, staring at him, and he saw no recognition in her look.

"Hello, Maggie," he said at last. He wanted to smile, to offer some kind of reassurance, but the strange fragility he saw in her made him hesitate.

"Doctor Ross says I can go home with you," she said, a slight quaver in her voice. Maggie Draven would snarl and bite when she was afraid; she would scream rather than admit her fear. Her moods were contrary, swinging rapidly from one extreme to the next. He had seen every one of her moods, from her most terrified to her most angry. He had had to learn how pain made her angry, how her strongest emotions were the most well hidden; how her temper made her honest, and how despair made her silent. Her own weakness was always the thing guaranteed to spark her temper; fear, pain, confusion would all be shown in flashes of irritation and anger.

But not this – not sitting quietly in a hospital room, allowing herself to be caged and confined, and accepting it without any show of frustration. Maggie fought, even if she knew she couldn't win. She didn't have it in her to stop.

Except this wasn't Maggie. If nothing else – nothing that Ross had said or what had happened – had brought home to him that Maggie wasn't herself any more, it was this. The total surrender he saw in her, the willingness to allow things to happen to her instead of fighting against them.

She looked away, unable to stop the hurt showing in her eyes as she saw his reaction to her. "You're disappointed," she said quietly. "Aren't you?"

He sighed, stepping into the room. "I'm worried," he said. "I don't know what you want me to do."

She looked back to him, her gaze candid and open, so like Maggie it made his throat constrict. She would look at him like that – only him. Only he got to see the Maggie beneath all the layers of self-protection and preservation.

"Where will you take me?" she asked.

He blinked rapidly, licking his lips as he hesitated, wondering what was the right thing to say. "We have two homes," he began at last. "One in Kensington to be near where we work. Another in the Lake District."

"Is it pretty?"

Beautiful, his mind supplied. Stunning. But it had been the remoteness that had appealed to Maggie when she bought it, he knew. Not the picturesque location. "Very," he said instead. "We were going there before -" He stopped himself, not knowing where to take the conversation.

"Before what?" she prompted. He hesitated, not knowing how to continue, but forgot the thought as a flinch passed over her face, making her close her eyes briefly. She blinked rapidly, a frown creasing her features, before she winced again, raising her hand to her head instinctively.

He stepped forward quickly, wanting to reach out and touch her but afraid of her reaction. "Before you collapsed," he said at last, avoiding anything that might suggest memories before the ones she currently had. She had to remember in her own time – Ross had been very clear on that. He couldn't prompt her, tell her stories of her past, show her pictures, or do anything that might somehow damage her already fragile memory. Memories could be learned, Ross had said. Memories could be implanted, tampered with. Memories could be false. Whatever memories returned to Maggie, they had to be sure they came from inside her own head rather than pieced together from information provided by others.

She seemed to relax, accepting the explanation, her hand lowering again. "So we could go there, then?" she asked.

He nodded, seeing in his peripheral vision that Ross had stepped nearer the door at Maggie's sudden flinch.

"And you're Brian Macklin?" she added, hesitating over his name in a way that stabbed through his heart like a knife.

"Yes," he said, trying to sound as natural as possible. "And you're Maggie Draven."

She twisted uncomfortably. "We live together," she said awkwardly, deliberately phrasing her question as a statement.

He looked down at his feet, unable to watch the shy, nervous expression cross her face. "Why don't we get there and just see how you go?" he said instead of answering her question. He raised his head to look at her again, afraid she would refuse. After all, from her point of view, she was being sent to a strange place with a complete stranger.

"You don't remember me, Maggie," he said gently, carefully watching for her reactions. "But there was a time when you were very hurt – very damaged – and your Godfather sent you to me to take care of you. That was years ago, and a lot has happened since then." His steel-blue eyes held hers, mesmerising, urging her to listen to him, to believe him. "But one thing has never changed. One thing will never change," he continued, his whisper soft and reassuring. "You can always trust me. I will always look after you," he said, putting as much conviction in to his words as possible. "I would never hurt you, Maggie. I would never let anyone else hurt you ever again." He stepped closer to her, standing in front of her but not touching her. "I know you're frightened," he continued, staring into her dark blue eyes that watched him with wide-eyed innocence. "I know you don't understand what's happening to you, and you don't recognise anything around you. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that? Can you at least try?"

She stared up at him, seeing the fear of rejection in the back of his eyes, his worry obvious from the crease between his brows. She let her gaze roam over him, from his dark gold hair, tinges of red gold fading to blond, his dark storm-cloud blue eyes, his strong features, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs that seemed to go on forever. None of it seemed familiar; she didn't recognise one feature of the man in front of her, who she'd been told she had been living and working with for two years. Not even his voice, a rich timbre resonant with clipped, well-bred accent, seemed familiar.

She couldn't remember anything about him, not even his name until she had been given it. She couldn't remember how they had met, when they had fallen in love, any of the thousand and one ways they could have declared their love for each other. Her mind was empty. He wasn't there.

And as she stared into his midnight blue eyes, she knew he knew it. Knew his face meant nothing to her, no more than any stranger in the street. And it hurt him more than he could say.

She nodded, hesitantly at first but with growing certainty. "I don't know anyone, Brian," she said, a ghost of a smile curling her lips. "No-one else wants to claim me, and I've nowhere else to go." She saw a spark of pain in his eyes at her flippant words, so she reached out, taking his hand in hers and sliding off the bed to stand in front of him. He stared down at her hand in his as though he had been given some precious gift.

She smiled up at him. "I have to start trusting someone sometime," she said. "I may as well start with you."

Maggie had waited with a patience she seemed to have found from somewhere. Certainly, Macklin could never remember a time when she would ever have waited so calmly while her whole life was arranged for her, without even opening her mouth to offer a complaint. The doctors had given him sleeping tablets for her, explaining that her memories may resurface in nightmares and dreams, but that they should also expect her to have the usual random dreams that signified nothing. She may have difficulty sleeping. Macklin had suppressed a snort of disbelief; both of them were often disturbed through the night by unpleasant dreams, but together they had been able to keep the worst of the nightmares at bay. Only sleeping alone brought the worst of their memories out.

Sleeping alone – Macklin hesitated at the realisation. He couldn't share a bed with Maggie as she was now; he couldn't expect her to consider it. Which meant he wouldn't know whether her dreams were her usual nightmares or something new. He dismissed the thought; he would find a way. He had to. For Maggie.

He had to watch out for her head pains. There wasn't a physical cause for them, they assured him repeatedly. It was a psychosomatic response to something that threatened her current reality. The truth had to occur to her gently, gradually, in her own time. Anything that threatened to push reality onto her would result in the pains, in the distressing tendency to bang her fist against her head compulsively, and in all probability, collapse. The danger was that any of these episodes could force her further into the new reality, pushing Maggie further away.

The hospital doctors did not mention whether this Maggie was the real version all along. Ross had kept her word, keeping anything about Maggie's past from the doctors and hospital records. But she had primed him beforehand. He knew that if Maggie began to remember her life up to age 14, but nothing of being Magpie, then the Maggie Draven he had known had gone forever, nothing more than a defence mechanism created by a frightened 14 year old girl. Annabel Slade would be the real Maggie. Magpie would be no more - dead, but still alive and walking, with the same face, similar mannerisms, but a different person.

She might not love him. Just as bad was the thought that he may not be able to love her. In which case, his whole life since meeting her would have been nothing but a sham, a pretence. He would have fallen in love with a lie, given his heart and soul to a fiction.

The fears and despairing thoughts swarmed through his mind as he drove the long distance to the Lake District. He had not been able to lay one finger on her the whole trip. He had held doors for her, ensured she was settled in the seat, but other than the moment when she'd put her hand in his, he had not touched her. Couldn't. The need to pull her close into his arms was so overwhelming, he knew that one slight touch would break his control. Now she sat, silent and unmoving beside him in the Land Rover, staring out of the car windows and watching the miles stream past.

Maggie would have curled up and fallen asleep, or chatted, or just sat in companionable silence. There was nothing companionable about this silence; it stretched out uncomfortably between them.

He had to stop comparing her to Maggie, he chided himself. She was Maggie. Or she would be again. Constantly reflecting on how she had been to what she was now would not help matters. He had to remember that she wouldn't be like this forever.

Or so he hoped.

And there were flashes – brief, fleeting, transient moments when he recognised a look or a sound. Something that tormented him with the hope that she was back, before being lost in the look of a stranger once more.

She didn't bombard him with questions, didn't ask anything other than idle conversation – how long would the trip take, how long would they be staying. He stopped for petrol fifty miles from home, more to get out of the car and stretch his legs than any other need. He arched his back, watching as the petrol pump ticked through the digits remorselessly, and felt his spine crack and pop. He paid for the fuel and walked back to the car slowly, letting the cool morning air waken him.

His eyes felt gritty and dry. He rubbed them gently, trying to ease the tiredness. He had been awake for twenty-four hours; dealt with an explosion, the death of a secret service executive, made statements, and then found Maggie missing. The last day seemed crammed with one drama after another, until Cowley and Murphy had left him at the hospital to return to their own crisis, leaving him to pace the corridor and feel useless, until Kate Ross had arrived, doubtless at Cowley's request.

He paused halfway to the car, looking through the windscreen and seeing her leaning against the headrest, staring out the passenger window. She looked pale, but not as white as when she had been in the hotel. He shuddered at the memory of her collapse, remembering the boneless, leaden feel of her limbs as he had held her against him. He hadn't let go of her until they reached the hospital, carrying her to Cowley's car and through the hospital entrance, before having to surrender her to the doctors and nurses.

If he'd known he may never hold her again, he didn't think he would have let them take her from him.

He got back into the car, into the warm cocoon filled with familiar scents. She turned to look at him. He saw the movement in the corner of his eye, and felt a surge of sadness. He didn't want to look at her. He couldn't remember a time when he'd not wanted to look at her.

He forced himself to turn his head towards her, a fixed smile in place as he turned the key of the Land Rover.

"You look tired," she said, an almost clinical tone in her voice suggesting she made an observation rather than expressing any concern.

For the first time, he felt a creeping doubt whether he had done the right thing. "Not far now," he said, transferring his attention back to the road.

She turned back to stare out of the passenger window, the countryside sprawling out alongside them now they had left the motorway behind. The miles had gone past and she had felt no stirring of memories. Everything seemed familiar, and yet it didn't feel right, as though the world had somehow flipped into a mirror image of itself.

"Alice Through The Looking Glass," she suddenly said out loud.

Macklin flashed her a confused look. "What?"

She frowned, unsure why she had made such a bizarre statement. "Alice," she repeated. "Believing one impossible thing a day."

"Believing six before breakfast," Macklin said with a smile. "The Queen of Hearts."

"Are you always full of obscure references?"

He laughed. "Always." His smile faded. There was another obscure reference in the Queen of Hearts, he remembered. She lived backwards. '— but there's one great advantage in it, that one's memory works both ways...It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.'

She watched, fascinated at the smile that lightened his features; an innocent, almost boyish smile. She felt a strange sadness when it faded and he seemed to withdraw again.

She wanted to remember him, if only to stop the hurt she sensed in him, however well he tried to hide it. It seemed so bizarre that she should have suddenly woken up today, less than 24 hours earlier, and blanked out everything of her life up to that point. What had happened to make her forget? What could it be that made this confusion preferable to knowing?

Pain stabbed behind her eyes, catching her unawares. She gave a short gasp, reaching up to rub her fingertips against the side of her head to try to erase the jolts of blinding white pain that flashed through her head like lightning.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

She tried to reply, but the piercing agony seemed to throb with her heartbeat, driving away any ability to think or speak.

"Maggie?" Worry gave his voice a sharpness he had not intended. They were another half an hour from home, and he wanted nothing more than to wash the remaining smell of burned plastic from himself before collapsing into bed, but he pulled over immediately and turned to her. He reached out to stroke her hair, but hesitated, his fingertips scant inches from her. "Maggie?" he repeated, his voice softer, a trace of melancholy in his hushed tones. Afraid of his reception, not knowing what reaction he would receive, he allowed his fingers to cross the remaining distance, stroking her hair gently, soothingly.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on the sweep of his fingers against her head, and felt the pain subside. She gave a shuddering sigh. "I'm fine," she said at last, opening her eyes to find him staring at her, concern and fear in his storm-cloud blue eyes.

He removed his hand, and she watched as he withdrew from her again. She felt a pang of disappointment. "It's not far now," he said.

She wasn't sure. She didn't think it was possible to feel further away from anything and anyone than she did now.

Annabel had given up on the idea that there would be some magical flash of light and she would suddenly remember everything. So when the sprawling red brick Victorian house came into view at the end of the long driveway, she wasn't too disappointed at not feeling any sense of familiarity at the view. She was tired and hungry, and only wanted somewhere with clean sheets and running water.

Macklin knew better than to watch her for any indication of remembering. He could watch for every second of the day, and all he would succeed in doing would be to make her feel awkward at her inability to remember, and to feel the now familiar pang of disappointment when she didn't. Instead, he would wait until she said something; wait until she asked something that indicated an understanding.

You must not – you cannot – offer any information until she's ready to hear it. Ross' words echoed in his memory. He felt sure it all made perfect sense on paper, but how could he live with this?

She got out of the car, staring up at the building with her head tilted. She looked around herself, at the fields spreading into the distance, the nearby trees and wild heathers growing haphazardly. The sky seemed larger here – wider; giving a sense of eternal, infinite space like few places on Earth.

She watched Macklin surreptitiously as he got out of the car and made for the front door. He seemed oblivious to her presence, which distressed her for some reason she had no desire to dwell upon. Chasing these fleeting memories and emotions brought on the crippling head pains, and left her more confused than before, unable to remember the train of thought that had lead to the pains in the first place.

He entered the house, leaving the front door swinging open behind him. She waited to see whether he was watching for her, but there was no sign of him. He had left her behind.

She blinked, her vision misting with sudden tears, and felt a rising sense of panic. She couldn't understand the fear that gripped her as soon as he was out of sight; she only knew that she had to follow him, had to see him again.

She walked quickly after him, her sense of certainty starting to fade. She suddenly wondered whether he had existed at all, whether it was Hammersmith all over again. She couldn't rely on her memory; she could only trust what was there in front of her at the time.

She entered the house, feeling her heart beating rapidly in her chest, her breathing short and heavy as she tried to stem the fluttering of her heart. She looked around the hallway, not recognising any of the furniture and fittings. It was eclectic, scattered styles and textiles, prints of Pre-Raphaelite beauties staring down with mercury-misted eyes from the dark red and cream walls. The oak staircase in front of her swept upwards, a stained glass tinged with the dawn light on the half landing as the staircase turned and continued upwards. A St. George holding his white charger by the halter, standing protectively in front of his damsel in distress.

How could she recognise St. George in the window, name each of the Pre-Raphaelite pictures – how did she even know what any of that meant – and yet not know what room was where?

She heard a noise towards the back of the house, and almost ran towards it, desperate for something to take away this aching emptiness inside her. She paused at the doorway to the kitchen – a large airy room, clean pine cupboards covered with pale marble, and a large pine table to one side of the room. Two dressers flanked the wall opposite the windows and patio doors leading outside.

Macklin stood by the sink, the kettle in one hand, oblivious to her presence. Seeing him, his powerful physique solid and reassuring, calmed her racing heart. Somehow just being near him stopped the worst of her panic. Her own St. George, and her the damsel in distress.

She wondered if he knew how he reassured her simply by being there.

But she wasn't his damsel, she remembered. She wasn't Maggie Draven, not quite. She still couldn't think of herself by that name, although it felt somehow closer than Annabel. But Annabel was how she had thought of herself since yesterday, and she would remain Annabel until she felt confident that she had Maggie Draven's memories. Calling herself Maggie felt like she was borrowing another woman's life.

He turned to her, instinctively aware of her presence. "Do you want something to eat?" he asked casually.

"I'd like a shower," she said hesitantly.

He reached for the bread he had brought in with him, placing two slices in the toaster as he talked. "Well, have a shower," he replied almost dismissively. "I'll make up the beds, get some food ready, then when we've finished, I suggest a few hours sleep." He rubbed at his tired eyes again and stifled a yawn.

She blinked, feeling oddly rebuffed in some way by his apparent coldness. "Where do I go?" she stammered.

She flinched at the hard look in the steel-blue eyes suddenly fixed on her. "I'll show you," he said gently. He stepped around her carefully. She couldn't help but notice how he avoided any contact with her. It simply added to her feeling of rejection. Clearly she was so unlike Maggie Draven he couldn't tolerate being close to her, could barely tolerate looking at her. She felt a flush of shame and embarrassment, suddenly feeling like a terrible burden.

She followed him up the stairs, walking past St. George and his damsel, before entering a large bedroom at the rear of the house. Leaded glass panes looked out over a woodland, not so dense that individual trees could not be seen. The landscape dipped and rolled gently, the lush green silvered with morning dew turning to a mist as the sun began to burn through. The room was painted a rich dark blue, a picture rail delineating the line between the blue and the cream that flowed into the ceiling. A large four poster bed dominated the room, the oak frame dark and carved intricately like some mediaeval Gothic prop. The dark blue carpet was soft underfoot, absorbing the sounds of their footsteps.

He opened a door opposite, showing her a bathroom attached to the bedroom. A large bath, claw-footed and elegant, sat in the middle of the room in front of another leaded window looking out over the landscape. To one side, a double shower beckoned, dark green tiles against pristine white. She entered the room, looking about her for anything she could recognise as hers. Instead, it seemed all frighteningly new.

"I'll see you when you've finished," he said, closing the door behind him.

She started, afraid of feeling the same sense of unreality swamp her as it had when she had lost sight of him downstairs, but some sense of security must have remained. She had convinced herself of his existence, perhaps.

She sighed, wondering how many times she would be presented with something natural and normal, and experience it for the first time. She resigned herself to sorting it out some other time, when she was clean, fed and rested. There had simply been too many surprises for one day already.

She slid the bolt fast on the door, and began to undress.

Macklin closed the bathroom door on her, leaving her to her privacy. He ached with the need to hold her, to reassure himself she was safe, but he didn't know how she would react. He had no intention of frightening her, and he couldn't expect her to be comfortable in the arms of a stranger. He had no idea what memories such an embrace might trigger, and he scared himself with the thought of pushing her further into this strange retreat. He couldn't bring himself to look at her in case she read his thoughts in his face. He would never have had that worry with anyone else; no-one could read him like Maggie. If this Maggie – this Annabel – could read him the same way, and yet not know him, he had no idea what confusion that would add to her already delicate mental state.

It was so difficult to see her look at him without recognition in her eyes. The familiar, knowing look he had been so used to receiving from her every day now haunted him. The same eyes looked at him, but without the fire. It was as though she had been drained of whatever spark it was made her Maggie, and he had left was this shell, this empty vessel that had once contained all the flash, all the fury, all the passion that went together to define his Maggie. He had to be so wary of leading her into remembering anything, and yet at the same time, present her with normality in the hope that it triggered her memory. He could never ask her whether something felt familiar. When she had not remembered the lay-out of her own home, he had thought he must surely have given away his complete despair. Maggie had owned this house for years before he had moved in. In some strange way, the house was her – it reflected her eclectic tastes, things collected simply because they caught her eye, or because they served a purpose. At least, that had been the reasons at first. Later, when they were together, things had been collected to remind them of special times, of shared moments. A glass vase he'd bought simply because it matched the violet blue of her eyes. A basket-hilted sword she'd bought because he'd admired the guard on the weapon. A typical magpie's nest of shiny things, he'd always thought it.

All these memories, and yet they sparked nothing in her now. It all seemed so pointless, so meaningless.

He missed her so much it hurt, a physical ache deep inside him. And yet she stood in front of him. It defied all logic, all reason.

And when he heard the bolt snap shut on the bathroom door, he felt something inside him shatter. His last hope that it was all a bad dream. Maggie would never have locked him out – never. Clearly, Annabel Slade did not trust him quite so much.

Tiredness never dragged him down so much as the despair that added its weight to his limbs as he left the room behind, preparing to ready the bedrooms – their room for her, and the guest room for himself.

Annabel pulled off the short sleeved t-shirt, and noticed the silvery tracks along her arms again. She frowned, following the tracery up her arm, feeling it continue to the top of her shoulder. She turned to the mirror and saw the abrupt end of the line as it met her shoulder blade.

She caught more scars in the mirror, across the middle of her back. A hatched pattern of around seven lines. If she reached carefully behind, she could just about feel them against her fingertips.

She felt strangely detached from the reflection in the mirror, almost as though watching someone else. She stared at her face, examining the pale skin, the dark purple smudges under her eyes. She pulled her hair back from her face, turning from one side to the other, wondering if she would find some kind of head injury that had been missed by the doctors and nurses prodding around her all yesterday evening and into the night. But there was nothing; no bruises except those caused by lack of sleep under her eyes. No marks except the old scars along her arms and across her back.

It was as though she was looking at something she had not seen for many years. Vaguely familiar, but new and uncertain. She examined her face critically. No scars marked her face, and no wrinkles creased the corners of her eyes. She ran her fingertips over her face curiously, outlining lips, cheeks, eyebrows, jaw line.

"Maggie Draven," she said softly, addressing the reflection. She reached out to trace the same features on the surface of the mirror. "Annabel Slade," she whispered. Neither one seemed to fit, yet either one could be correct. It was like parts of a jigsaw, missing the one interlocking piece.

She sighed, stepping back from the mirror to continue undressing, freezing when she caught sight of her stomach as she unzipped her jeans and pushed them back off her hips.

She slid the jeans lower, exposing the firm, flat stomach, marred by a jagged scar running from hip bone to hip bone, and from navel to almost the top of her pubic bone. Her hands shook as she traced the scars with her finger tips, the skin strangely delicate to the touch. Hard ridges formed the joins where the two slashes criss-crossed. One side of the long scar running along her hips looked neater, smaller, but it seemed to grow more vicious as it spread across her abdomen, turning from a slash to a rip. The vertical slash was smaller, as though it had been administered first, before the sweeping slash across her stomach.

Dizziness swept over her. She couldn't breathe, her throat constricting as though something wrapped around her, cutting off the air supply. She reached instinctively for her neck, trying to pull away imaginary bonds.

Black dots danced in front of her eyes; the stale smell of cigarettes and the stink of whisky; dust choking her; light glittering on the edge of a blade; then cold – so cold – coldness sinking all the way through her, as though she would never be warm again.

She gasped, opening her eyes to find herself kneeling on the floor of the bathroom, desperately gulping air into burning lungs. Her face was wet; she could feel tears streaming down her cheeks, dripping from her chin. She wiped her face with a hand and forced herself to her feet, staring at her reflection as though terrified of what she would see.

She ran her hand over the cruel scars on her stomach again. What kind of person was she to carry scars like this? What had she done? What had been done to her?

Why the hell would she want those memories back?

She turned on the shower, and allowed the steam to hide her reflection from view.

Macklin hesitated in the doorway as he heard the lock slide back from the bathroom door. Maggie emerged slowly, a towel held tightly around her, another one wrapped around her head. She gave him a startled look, and he saw her red-rimmed eyes shone with tears. He frowned, opening his mouth to ask, but stopping himself. He was afraid of the answer.

He gestured to the bed, and the cabinet beside the bed that held a tray with fresh toast and honey, and a steaming cup of black tea.

"Have something to eat, then try for a few hours sleep," he said, his voice quiet but strangely gruff. He had showered himself while she had locked herself away, she noticed. Dampness turned his blond hair to bronze. The loose fitting lounge pants and t-shirt seemed to emphasise the leanness of his frame. Blue eyes the colour of the evening sky watched her cautiously.

She cast her eyes down, tiredness overwhelming her as well as the sense of distance between them.

"Thank you," she managed, before a yawn escaped her, leaving her swaying and blinking in its wake.

He took a step towards her, concern creasing his brow, and she looked up in time to catch the look of worry in his face. She felt strangely reassured by it.

"I'll be in the room opposite if you need me," he said softly, scanning her face for any sign of distress or pain. She gave a wan smile, tiredness preventing her from showing more gratitude.

He stepped backwards from the room, unwilling to turn his back on her until the last moment. "Try to get some sleep," he said, firm but gentle, as he closed the door behind him.

She closed her eyes as loneliness suddenly crashing over her in a wave of emptiness. When she opened them again, the room seemed to swim and dive around her. Feeling unsteady and dizzy, she took tottering baby steps to the bed, only relaxing when she felt the reassuring firmness of the mattress supporting her body. She lay back on the bed, not caring about the wet towels, her eyes closed as she fought against the spinning sensation.

The smell of the toast caught her, turning her head towards it before opening her eyes, watching her hand reach for the food. She took a small bite, feeling the taste flood across her tongue, saliva filling her mouth as her hunger took over. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten.

But then, she couldn't remember a lot of things.

She ate the toast as slowly as possible, resisting the temptation to cram the delicious food into her mouth. She paused between each mouthful to sip the black tea, too tired and hungry to notice that he had made it according to her preferences. When the tea had gone, the last of the toast devoured, she closed her eyes again and sank back into the pillows. Some of her dizziness had been eased by the food and drink, and now tiredness overwhelmed her completely. She fell asleep within seconds.

Mustn't bite my tongue.. mustn't – have to be ready for next one... Sick, bile scorching the back of my throat... carpet burning against my cheek... burning, burning, burning...oh please stop, please stop, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts...

"It hurts!" She opened her eyes suddenly, hearing her own voice echoing in her ears. She lay curled on the floor, the cover pulled off the bed and wrapped around her. Warm arms surrounded her; a gentle rocking motion soothed her, as a voice murmured next to her ear.

"Hush now... hush now... it's alright. They won't hurt you again. I promise you." Over and over again, the litany was repeated, whispered into her ear. His voice cracked and broke, ragged with emotion, a subtle accent creeping through the usually crisp, precise tones. "Hush now... hush now..."

She jerked suddenly, pushing against him roughly as she scrambled out of his arms, clutching the bed cover around her. Once there was distance between them, she stared at him, her breathing hoarse and rapid, her eyes huge with fear.

Fear. She had never looked at him with fear in her eyes, not since the moment they had met. Even in the early days, when he had first begun training her, pinning her to the mat, she had never focused that fear on him. It had only ever been the memory of terror, never directed at him. And now, she stared at him in panic.

He blinked, unable to look at her, his vision blurring with unshed tears. He got to his feet, putting more distance between them. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I heard a cry. You'd fallen..." He stopped, walking away from her to stand looking out of the window across the wild landscape. He passed a hand over his face, wiping away the tears before they fell.

She crouched on the floor, hating herself for what she'd done to him. Her dream had faded, nothing left but snatches of sounds and flashes of images, a madcap patchwork of emotions and colours. She felt sore and aching from where she had obviously fallen out of the bed. The bedroom door was wide open. Obviously, he had heard her fall, heard her cry out, and rushed to help her.

St. George and the damsel...

She gathered the bed cover around her and stood up. The sun seemed higher in the sky, so some hours must have passed since she had fallen asleep. Cautiously, she approached him, reaching out hesitantly to lay her hand against his forearm. He started, gasping in surprise as though her touch burned him, and stared down at the hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry, Brian," she said softly. "I didn't mean to push you away. I just forgot where I was."

He turned to her, his brows creased in confusion as he searched her face for any clues. "Maggie?" he whispered hesitantly. But Maggie wouldn't push him away, he reasoned. Maggie always knew it was him, however hard the nightmares caught her.

She stepped closer to him, pressing herself against him, her head against his chest. He hesitated, not knowing what to do, where to put his arms, until he finally settled his hands lightly on her shoulders, careful not to constrict or trap her in any way.

"What did you dream?" he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath her ear.

"I can't remember," she replied with a sigh. "I don't know what it meant."

She felt him sag slightly, his arms sliding carefully around her in a loose embrace. "It's alright," he said gently. "Everything will be fine, soon," he soothed.

The day passed quietly. He prepared light meals which she ate, tea which she drank. He drove into the nearest village for fresh supplies and found her outside when he returned. She sat against the crumbling old dry stone wall, a host of noisy ducks waddling busily around her as she tore pieces off the bread in her hands and fed them. He watched, fascinated by her unconscious smile, her laughter as she giggled at the birds' antics. She looked up at him, suddenly aware of his attention, and the open, carefree look on her face clutched at his heart. She grinned and chuckled gleefully at him, and he couldn't help but laugh to see her, so bright and happy. She was Maggie and yet not Maggie. The laughter and childlike joy so like the brief, incongruous moments from Maggie when she let her guard down completely. But the warmth of her look was missing - the knowing, familiar gleam in her eye only for him.

He carried the bags of shopping through to the kitchen, mildly surprised to find she had followed him inside.

"Your friends will miss you," he said with a smile.

"Cupboard love," she replied, rustling the empty bread wrapper. She shrugged, looking anywhere in the room but at him as she crumpled up the wrapper and put it in the bin. "I hope you brought some more?"

He pulled the loaf from the bags. "I did," he announced, turning to put it in its place. "But not for you to feed to the ducks." His teasing smile contradicted the scolding words. He watched her carefully. "How do you feel?" he asked at least, trying to hide his nervousness.

She looked better. The black marks under her eyes had almost disappeared. She still looked pale – even paler than usual. Any cursory glance would fool anyone into thinking nothing had changed. It needed an expert eye to spot the differences. She still had the inherently elegant gait and poise of a dancer, but she had lost the predatory prowl she had acquired over the years, a natural tendency to walk silently, as though stalking. The rich blue eyes were the same, but they looked guileless and innocent, without the flashing cynicism that could turn to biting wit or flippant despair, depending on her mood. The vulnerability had always been there, the flashes of unaffected, uncontrived honesty, but hidden behind the calculating, sceptical Magpie.

That was the difference. The sheer simple fact now hit him hard. The strangeness in her. She still had the qualities he had always thought of as being Maggie. But she lacked anything that suggested the Magpie.

She shrugged, oblivious to his sudden epiphany. "I feel alright," she said non-committally. The old Maggie couldn't lie to him, not convincingly – at least not without raising some suspicion. This Maggie stood even less chance of deceiving him.

"Did you get any rest while I was gone?" he asked.

She leaned against the door frame, restless and fidgeting. "No," she admitted eventually. Her violet eyes regarded him, wide and hesitant, sensing his disapproval.

He gave a huff of criticism but said nothing as he finished with the shopping. He cast an eye around the kitchen for a final check.

She watched him carefully, almost fearfully. He pretended not to notice, but the hesitant look distressed him. He thought if he made a sudden movement, she would flinch. He didn't think he could stand it if she did.

"I need to chop some firewood," he said, hoping the activity would expend some of the nervous energy he felt fizzing through his muscles. He needed release, some mindless tedious chore that would somehow stop his mind from working. And if it exhausted him, ready for sleep, all the better.

She nodded, moving aside to allow him to pass through. He strode outside into the mid afternoon sun, making for the small shed to the side of the house where the unprepared logs were kept. He removed the axe from inside the door, unwrapping the oiled cloth that kept the blade clean, and set to work.

Annabel/Maggie stared around the empty kitchen, chewing her lip nervously. The house suddenly seemed empty again without him, the same emptiness that had chased her outside while he had been shopping. She looked around her, trying to concentrate on something to quell the fear churning in her stomach, but no matter how hard she tried, nothing seemed to ease her rising panic.

She choked on a sob, almost running out of the house after him. Outside the door, she hesitated, confused and lost, not knowing in what direction he had gone. A whimper escaped as she fought the urge to scream out, before the hollow sound of wood being split came from the back of the house. She dashed towards it, too desperate to even try to hide her fear, turning the corner almost at a sprint.

She stopped in her tracks, her breathing harsh and laboured as though she had run for miles, but she couldn't hide her smile as she felt her fears disappear.

Macklin continued chopping wood, almost turned completely away from her, oblivious to her sudden appearance. The tight jeans sculpted his strong legs as he stood, feet apart and knees slightly bent, effortlessly swinging the axe down onto the wood, splintering it into small pieces. He had taken off his dark green cotton shirt, and it hung on a handy peg on the door of the shed out of his way. His skin glowed golden in the sunlight, muscles moving sinuously under the smooth surface. Silvery scars showed in places, the ghosts of gunfights and beatings, but they couldn't detract from the beauty of him. The muscles in his legs flexed and flowed as he bent down to pick up the kindling, throwing them to one side, before picking up another larger log and beginning to chop into it.

She couldn't explain it, and she didn't want to try. Just the sight of him scared away her demons. She still couldn't quite shake the fear that he wasn't real when she couldn't see him - just a trick of her new and flawed memory. But when he was there in front of her – all tall, lithe, long-limbed elegance and power – then she couldn't remember what had frightened her in the first place.

She leaned against the wall, content to simply watch the swing and flow of the axe in his strong, capable hands. The rhythm of the blows and the warmth of the sun soothed her, but not as much as the lean, long-legged figure of the man. Sweat sheened his skin, turning his hair to the colour of old gold. As he swung upwards, she could see the fine hairs of his chest glinting like pale copper in the sunlight. She couldn't imagine ever growing tired of watching him.

She didn't know him. She couldn't remember anything about him. But she knew she loved him. There didn't have to be a reason. It was about the only thing of which she was certain in this topsy-turvy Looking Glass world. Whoever Brian Macklin was, she loved him.

Unfortunately, she also knew that he didn't love her. He loved the person she had been. And that knowledge left a hollow ache inside her.

He bent down again to move the wood he had broken, and caught a glimpse of her in his peripheral vision. He stopped what he was doing to turn and acknowledge her, a questioning look on his face. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a dark smear of dirt in his wake. She stood leaning against the wall, a guilty look on her face as though he had caught her doing something wrong.

He frowned, a strange thought occurring to him. Everywhere he had gone that day, whether the kitchen, the garden, or wandering the house, opening doors and windows to air the place, she had followed him. He hadn't given it much thought, thinking perhaps she wanted to explore the house, to see if anything triggered any memories. He had been content to let her roam; he hadn't tried to prompt her or badger her with demands about whether anything seemed familiar. But now he recalled everything, he realised it hadn't been the house she had been watching, except cursory glances perhaps at some of the more eclectic objects. She had been watching him, just as she was now.

And when he had left her alone, he had found her outside on his return. Had she been waiting for him, outside?

He turned back to the wood, feeling strangely self-conscious under her scrutiny, but curious. He would need to ask her, when he felt the time was right, what caused her to watch him so closely.

He wondered if it was a good sign, but crushed the thought. He couldn't afford false hope.

The axe rose and fell in the same reassuring rhythm, allowing his mind to wander, picking over the strangeness of the situation.

She was Maggie, but without the Magpie. Did that mean the Magpie had been the fugue state all along? He loved Maggie, worshipped her – but he knew it was the darkness in her that completed their understanding. He carried the same darkness inside him, and similar demons haunted their dreams. It wasn't that they had committed terrible acts over the years; it was that they were capable of much worse. It wasn't that they were killers; it was that they could – almost – learn to enjoy it. They hadn't, which in itself was a miracle in their line of work, but the possibility existed. They had dabbled in darkness, and lived in shadows. It left its mark.

He had managed his demons through applying himself to the tasks he had been given, serving Queen and Country, holding his own integrity and honour as his moral compass. Magpie had been somewhat less selective, perhaps, but she had her own sense of right and wrong. It may be warped, certainly – he could not deny that. But it was a sense of justice that fitted her own purposes, albeit a more flexible one than his own. The only opinion that had mattered to her had been his own. The only one strong enough to deal with the darkness inside him had been her.

He needed Magpie, he knew it, as much as he needed Maggie. But Magpie had been forged in awful, terrible circumstances. She had lurked in the shadows even when he had first met the 14 year old child-woman, Morgan Draven. The horrors that had created Magpie still haunted the dreams that made her scream herself awake. Magpie could never forget those things; this Maggie – this Annabel – couldn't remember.

The axe landed with a loud thud. Annabel couldn't remember. And to be Maggie – Magpie – again, she would have to. He felt a hollow sadness creep through his heart.

Could he – how could he? - want her to remember that pain? If she had the chance to forget it, to never remember that horror again, how could he resent that? How could he destroy that recovered innocence?

He let go of the axe, leaving it in the solid lump of wood that formed the chopping block.

Annabel was who Maggie would have been had she had any chance for a normal life. Magpie was Maggie after she'd crawled out of horrors he didn't want to think about.

He looked back at her, seeing the lost look in her beautiful face, the sweetness in her eyes. Guilt washed over him, heavy and oppressive. How could he throw her back into that hell? How could he want her to remember the worst things that could happen? He was no better than the men who had put Maggie in that hell in the first place.

He gathered together the kindling into the basket, before wrapping the axe in the oiled cloth again and replacing it inside the shed. He collected his shirt in one hand, picking up the basket of wood with the other, and walked towards her.

She watched him, noticing for the first time the silvery mess of scar tissue on his stomach, above the waist band of his jeans. The injury looked old; the skin had healed into a network of puckered flesh that resisted the light tan covering the rest of his skin. She blinked rapidly, feeling a wave of dizziness sweep over her. She raised her hand to the side of her head, closing her eyes on the swimming images in front of her.

Macklin saw her sway slightly, a frown creasing her features, before the tell-tale warning sign of her hand rising to her head alerted him. He broke into a run, dropping the wood and shirt immediately, managing to reach her just as her knees buckled under her weight. He caught her by her arms, effortlessly supporting her.

"Maggie?" He stared down into her face, her eyelids fluttering as she tried to focus on him. He could almost see the pain lance through her head as she flinched and gasped. She sagged against him, but her grip on his shoulders was strong, almost painful, as her fingers dug into his muscles. Her lips moved falteringly as she tried to form words from around her clenched teeth.

Without another word, he swept her into his arms, striding rapidly to the door into the house. The back door was unlocked, opening with a bang as he kicked it. He carried her into the lounge, laying her gently on one of the sofa. Her eyes were tightly clenched, her lips pale and compressed.

He stroked her head carefully, feeling frustrated at his inability to help her. "Maggie?" He called her again, whispering her name softly.

She opened her eyes cautiously, as though afraid of what she would see. When she saw him leaning towards her, his handsome face streaked with dirt from his exertions and creased with worry, she let out a gasping breath of relief.

"What was it?" he asked, unable to stop himself.

She closed her eyes again as she raised her hand to her head. He intercepted it, holding her hand in his own, feeling the tremors running through her. He ran his thumb across the back of her hand, matching the soothing stroking to the touch of his other hand on her head.

"Flames," she said at last, her lips trembling with the effort required to speak through the pain. "Burning," she added.

Slowly, her shaking subsided and she relaxed into the sofa. He continued the rhythmical caress against her skin, calming and reassuring; but inside, worry consumed him. Finally, she gave a heavy sigh as the pain eased, opening her eyes and blinking rapidly.

"Where am I?" she asked, her eyes fixed on him.

"Safe," he replied immediately. "Home," he added, realising he needed to be specific.

Her gaze lowered and she frowned, reaching out to gently stroke her fingertips against his stomach. He flinched and gasped in surprise, causing her to hesitate, a questioning look on her face. He gave a reassuring smile.

"It's alright," he said. "Tickles."

She gave a soft chuckle, but continued to trace the cruel scars with her fingers. Her touch was warm, soft against his skin, and he felt the curl of arousal begin in his gut.

"I don't remember -" she began falteringly. She paused to lick her lips. "I don't remember how these happened," she said at last.

He tried not to feel the touch of her hand on his skin, to deny the scent of her so close to him. "I was shot," he whispered. "A long time ago." He swallowed, taking a deep shuddering breath, before reaching for her hand and removing it from his skin.

The violet eyes stared up at him, a tinge of doubt in their depths. The hint of rejection in her eyes caused a flash of remembrance.

"Will you be alright while I fetch the wood in?" he asked, trying for a normal tone of voice, one that didn't betray the desire stirring inside him.

She gave a brief nod, pulling her hand from his grasp and looking away from him. He cursed himself for causing her to withdraw from him, for his uncontrollable reaction to her. She could arouse him with a look; her touch could bring him to his knees.

But this wasn't Maggie. He had to keep telling himself that. She looked like Maggie, sounded like her, even smelled like her. But it wasn't her. And there was no telling what memories would resurface if he gave into the need to touch her, hold her, kiss her.

He stood, hoping he had turned away from her before she could notice the unmistakable signs of his arousal, hard against his tight jeans, and left the room.

She watched him leave, biting her lip against the desire to call out for him. As soon as he was out of sight, the familiar fear gripped her. She closed her eyes, concentrating instead on listening for sounds of his movement.

She remembered the feel of his skin beneath her hands, the warm flesh, still slick with sweat. His eyes had darkened and she knew he wanted her. But he had turned away, left her as quickly as he could.

He didn't want her, she told herself harshly. He wanted the other her. She couldn't even begin to know how different she was now to what she had been, but obviously it must be significant. He looked at her so sorrowfully, when he looked at her at all. Most of the time, she didn't think he could bring himself to acknowledge her. He touched her only when necessary. Except for the embrace when she had woken from her forgotten nightmare, he hadn't offered her any physical contact except what was necessary, such as carrying her when she was close to fainting.

His rejection left her feeling cold and hollow. She wanted him to hold her, wanted the security of his arms around her, his warmth to ease the almost constant coldness she felt inside. If she asked him, she expected he would do it, but somehow she knew it wouldn't help. He would look uncomfortable, unwilling, and his reluctance would hurt her even more.

Annabel felt a surge of irrational jealousy – she hated Maggie Draven, whoever she was.

Macklin emerged from the bathroom, not entirely surprised to find Maggie – Annabel – loitering in the hall. She sat on the ornately carved Indian cabinet beneath the window looking out the front of the house, a slightly guilty expression on her face. She toyed with a black stone, a reminder of a day spent walking the countryside, not seeing anyone the whole time except each other. The stone was black with veins of white running through it, worn smooth by the elements.

He ruffled his damp hair with the small hand towel, drying it roughly. The larger bath sheet clung to his lean hips. He noticed her gaze travel over him before sliding away, a slight flush on her cheeks, and berated himself for not thinking of taking more clothing with him into the bathroom.

"Are you alright now?" he asked solicitously.

She nodded, her gaze flicking briefly towards him before lowering again, watching the black stone in her hands. "I still don't remember," she said quietly.

He sighed. "Don't try so hard," he admonished gently. She looked up at him, her violet eyes wide. "It will happen," he said, putting as much certainty into his voice as possible. He had to believe that. He had to.

She nodded reluctantly, wanting to ask him what would happen if he was wrong, but nervous of the answer. He hesitated before turning away, making for the room he had prepared for himself. He half-wondered if she would follow him in there, but she stayed by the window and watched as he closed the door behind him. When he emerged a few minutes later, dressed, she had gone.

The scream woke him immediately, bringing him to his feet in an instant. He heard a bang from her room, the distinctive sound of something landing heavily on the floor, and another scream that turned into loud sobbing. He ran from his room, throwing open the door to her – their – bedroom, but he froze a few steps inside.

She had pushed him away the night before.

Suddenly, Brian Macklin didn't know what to do. Didn't know how to comfort the woman he loved. There had never been a time when he didn't know her. Oh, he had underestimated the depths of her feelings on more than one occasion, but he couldn't remember a time, not from the moment he'd first met her, when she had been a stranger to him. Until now.

She lay on her back on the floor, her back arched in pain. One arm clutched reflexively around her stomach while the other hand beat remorselessly against her head. She sobbed from behind teeth clenched hard against the pain, her eyes staring glassily at the ceiling. Her lips moved as though she was trying to form words through her cries and gasps. Finally, desperation forced her mouth open, all her fears and terror concentrated in one word torn from her saliva-flecked lips.

"Mack!"

He was on his knees beside her immediately, reaching out to stroke her head reassuringly, removing the hand that banged relentlessly against the side of her head. He did not dare to take her in his arms, not after her reaction the night before, but he had to let her know he was there. He would always be there.

He realised what had happened; a nightmare, in all probability, but with the extra bonus of crippling stomach cramps as her old injury let itself be felt. Except Annabel didn't know what had caused that injury; she didn't know what the spasms meant or why they were happening. And that combined with the nightmare had triggered the pains in her head. She was panicking, she didn't understand. Confusion upon confusion, until she couldn't deal with any of it.

But she had called him Mack. Only she ever got away with shortening his name, persisting even when he had rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, because she knew he secretly loved it. Loved that she could feel so comfortable with him as to award him a pet name; loved that he permitted such familiarity.

"Shhh," he soothed gently, stroking her hair away from her face where it clung to the sweat sheened brow. Her wide eyed panicked stare shifted from the ceiling, fixing on him, focusing at last as his presence registered. "It's alright, Maggie," he continued in the same reassuring tone, the softest trace of Scottish accent filtering through his usually clipped Sandhurst trained voice, as it did when he was tired or half asleep. "It'll pass, lassie. Just relax."

She whimpered softly, her eyes overflowing with tears. He brushed them away tenderly, but still didn't feel confident enough to hold her. Until she curled towards him, rolling onto her side; until she almost encircled him as he knelt beside her. He held his hands up out of the way, not knowing what to do, until with a sigh he surrendered to the instinct and cradled her against him.

He didn't know how long they remained like that, her wrapped around him while he soothed her with soft words and gentle hands. Long enough for him to feel the beginning tingling of pins and needles in his feet as he knelt with his long legs beneath him. He didn't move, didn't show any signs of discomfort. If she wanted him to stay like this until he lost all the feeling in his legs, he would do it, he vowed. Anything, just to hold her.

She stirred slightly against him, and he knew the stomach cramps must be easing. Slowly, she uncurled, but remained close to him. He lifted his hands from her carefully, cautious of her reaction. She looked tired and drained, the pain obviously sapping her strength. She propped herself up on one arm, reaching with her other hand to wipe her damp face. She looked almost embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," she croaked, unable to look at him.

He shook his head, irritation flaring inside him but aimed at himself rather than her. He reached out and hooked a finger beneath her chin, raising her head gently so she had to look at him. He stared down into the amethyst eyes. "You've nothing to be sorry about," he said firmly.

She lowered her gaze. "I have," she insisted. When the violet eyes looked back at him, he caught a flash of defiance in their depths. "I'm not her, am I?" she added.

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

She wiped her face again. "I'm not Maggie," she said, harshness creeping into her voice, a trace of anger. "And you miss her, don't you?"

He had no answer for her, no clear understanding of how her thoughts worked yet to help him. She tried to stand cautiously, one arm still wrapped around her stomach. He helped her up, wary of trapping her or making her feel cornered. He ignored the burning sensation in his legs as blood flowed back through muscles left too long in one position.

He helped her back to the bed, hovering nervously as she lay back down amongst the dishevelled sheets. He pulled the covers back over her, and jumped when she grabbed his wrist in a firm grip.

"You can't even bear to look at me, can you?" she accused him softly.

He stared down at her, not knowing how to explain the confusion he felt, the need to hold her fighting against his fear of what would happen if he did.

She released him, a guilty look crossing her face. "I'm covered in scars," she said, her voice quiet. "I don't remember how I got them, but it can't have been pleasant."

"No," he agreed softly. "It wasn't."

"And I think that's what I dream about, isn't it?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes. Perhaps."

"Do I always have nightmares?"

He hesitated, unsure of the safest answer to give. He leaned against the side of the bed with a sigh, half sitting on the edge. "Quite often," he replied at last. "Usually I wake you before they get too bad."

"That can't be very easy on you," she said quietly.

She looked sheepish, almost forlorn. He gave a tired smile, reaching for her hand where it lay on the covers and stroking her fingers with his own. "Oh it works both ways," he said softly. "You're not the only one with bad dreams." He released her hand reluctantly, and stood up ready to leave.

She reached out quickly and grabbed his retreating hand. "Don't go," she said, a hint of desperate panic in her voice.

He frowned, and allowed her to pull him closer to the bed again. "What's wrong?" he asked.

She looked embarrassed, unsure of herself. "Please," she said, her eyes wide and pleading. "Please don't leave me." She looked down at his hand, releasing his wrist so she could entwine her fingers with his own. "I forget, when you're not around," she admitted in a small voice. "I forget where I am, or how I got here. I worry that I imagined you and that you don't really exist."

"I thought I frightened you," he confessed, confusion creasing his brow.

She shook her head quickly. "Not you," she said. "I'm just -" She hesitated, licking her lips, dragging her teeth over her bottom lip as she tried to find the words to explain. "I'm frightened," she said at last with a shrug. "Of everything. It's all new, but it's not new." She looked up at him. "Please don't go, don't leave me. Please."

He sat back down on the edge of the bed, holding her hand in his, wanting to take her into his arms and tell her everything would be fine – but he didn't know.

"I can remember all these things – just quick glimpses and flashes," she continued. "But I can't put them together. I don't know what they mean. I can feel all these images in my head, but I can't control them." She looked dejected and miserable, her confusion making her tired. "All I know is, all that goes away when you're near. It all makes some kind of sense, even though I still don't understand it. I just feel that, eventually, it will all be right again. But when you're not around, when I can't see you, I don't know whether I imagined you all along, and it all gets too much."

He reached out carefully to stroke her head again, gently cupping her cheek in his hand and caressing her jaw with his thumb. "I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly. Relief flooded through him, despite the edgy note of panic in her words. The memories were there, just buried. Blocked by one brief instant when she had slammed her mind shut on all those memories as being too painful.

"And I don't understand how you can love someone who would do those things," she added in a whisper, unable to look at him.

His thumb stopped its gentle sweep against her jaw as her words sunk in. He gasped softly in surprise, then relentlessly lifted her chin to force her to meet his gaze. "You are not as bad as you think you are," he said firmly. "All those things you remember, they're true. But they're not you, not all of it. Not by a very long shot." His fingers caressed her face gently, his eyes softening with tenderness. "Everything you've done, I've done as well. But there's more to both of us than that."

Her violet eyes regarded him forlornly, blinking slowly as tiredness overwhelmed her. "I wish I could remember you," she said softly. "I think it would all be worthwhile, if I could just remember you."

His throat tightened at the sadness in her voice. "You will," he breathed gently, stroking her hand and urging her back to sleep.

"What if I don't?" she asked drowsily, her eyes closing, unable to keep them open any longer.

"I'll love you just the same," he promised firmly, and he knew it was true.

Slowly, careful not to disturb her as she slid back into sleep, he settled himself on the other side of the bed, on top of the covers. He didn't quite trust himself or her to slide beneath the covers to lie directly next to her. He had no idea what memories that would provoke. But she wanted him to stay close, and so he would.

Anything she wanted, he vowed, she would have it.

He held her hand gently, settling back to watch her sleep and to guard her dreams.

She sat up with a cry, her heart hammering in her throat as she looked around herself in panic. Immediately, Macklin was beside her, his presence reassuring her, warming the chill that filled her veins.

"Maggie?" he asked softly, his voice hoarse and cracked with sleep.

She lay back against the pillows, breathing heavily as she felt her pulse begin to slow again. The room was still in darkness, only the merest glint of the grey light of dawn creeping through the curtains. She could see the slight frown crease his forehead, his eyes dark and shadowed in the night as he looked down at her.

As always, the dream that had woken her faded into nothing. Orange flames and black smoke, even the smell of burning – none of it meant anything to her, and before she could phrase the question to ask him whether it was important, it had disappeared completely. She couldn't remember anything.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He sighed, settling down beside her again. "Will you stop apologising?" he said with a trace of irritation. "It's not as though you're doing it deliberately."

"I'm not letting you have much rest."

"I'm not complaining," he replied firmly. "Besides," he continued, allowing his voice to soften with affection. "I love you."

"You love Maggie," she said cryptically.

He propped himself up on his elbow to look down at her, determined not to let the comment pass. "You are Maggie," he said firmly. "You may not feel like her, and you may not remember her. But believe me – no-one else could be as bloody-minded, difficult, stubborn, relentlessly insubordinate and downright obdurate as Maggie Draven. And that's who you are." He saw her mouth twitch into a smile. "You don't honestly think I'd love someone who was easy-going and complaisant, do you?"

"Do you like making life difficult for yourself?" she asked, unable to stop the smile breaking across her face.

He settled beside her, resting his head in his hand as he leaned back on his elbow. "You complicate the hell out of it," he agreed with a grin. He reached out to take her hand, lightly stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. "But you make it all worthwhile," he added softly. "You give me a reason to carry on."

"How?" she asked, on a whispering breath.

He raised her hand to his lips, brushing her knuckles gently with a kiss. "Because you love me," he replied simply. "As impossible as it seems, you love me."

"You're not so difficult to love."

He gave a soft laugh, returning her hand to the cover, but leaving his fingers entwined with hers. "You'd be surprised," he said. "I'm a different person without you, Maggie." He wondered at himself, at the free way he was speaking to her. It felt like talking to a stranger about Maggie, and yet talking to her. He could tell her anything, he realised, because Maggie would never know.

Maggie, and yet not Maggie. How could he hope to follow the logic? She insisted she wasn't Maggie, and he knew she was. And yet he would talk to her in a way he would never talk to Maggie. It made little sense.

But then, at four in the morning, very little made sense.

"In what way?" she asked.

He smiled. Typical Maggie to want to know the details. "In every way that matters," he said. "You just make me feel safe."

He heard her laugh softly in the darkness. "What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothing," she whispered, her voice light with mirth. "Just that - I don't know anything. Not my name, my age or anything. I don't know anything about you. But I do know I love you." She laughed again, a soft chuckle of amusement in the darkness. "How bizarre is that?"

He leaned forward to press his warm lips to her forehead, kissing her gently. "About par for the course for us, I'd say," he whispered softly.

She was sheepish in the morning, reluctant to look at him, and he allowed her to slide out of bed without knowing he was awake. She disappeared into the bathroom, and he made his way back to the spare room before she re-emerged.

It started a day of fragile truce between them. She still seemed hesitant around him, but whether it was fear or simply confusion, he wasn't sure. Terrors during the night were one thing; he didn't know whether she remembered any of what had been said or what had brought him into their room in the first place. Her memory, once so perfect and photographic, was fragmented. She would begin a simple task, and if distracted, leave it unfinished and forgotten until her mind returned to that train of thought. He'd realised that by the time he'd found three unfinished mugs of tea in the kitchen.

He looked out over the landscape. The wind stirred the leaves on the trees in the distance, the sun warm enough to be comfortable and the breeze cool enough to be comforting. May was proving to bring the best of British weather, neither too hot nor too wet.

He turned to where she lay on the sofa, idly flicking through a novel she'd picked at random from the shelf. "Would you like a walk?" he asked.

She looked at him over the top of the book, glancing outside with a thoughtful look on her face, before nodding firmly. She eased herself upright with the feline grace he remembered so well.

"Where?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Anywhere we like."

So they walked the perimeter of the land, before joining the path at the one end that lead through more wild moors and woodlands. Eventually, they circled around, as the sun lowered on the horizon, streaking the sky with scarlet and purple.

He realised she was no longer walking beside him, and turned to find her staring at the sunset, a strange lost look on her face.

"Maggie?" They hadn't spoken a word all the time they had walked, simply exchanged nods and shrugs as they chose their route at random.

She didn't react to his voice. Feeling a growing unease, he walked back to her. She shaded her eyes against the dying sun, but stared into it without blinking.

"Maggie?" He repeated her name, reaching out hesitantly to touch her shoulder. He felt a fine tremor running through her. "Oh, Maggie," he breathed, as he watched tears slide down her cheeks, glinting in the reddish glow.

"It's burning," she whispered. "Burning, burning." She repeated the word over and over again, as the hand shading her eyes reached through her hair, grabbing a handful by the roots and tugging sharply.

He removed her hand, lacing her fingers into his, watching as she reflexively gripped his hand as though still pulling at her hair. He reached around her with his other arm, pulling her gently by the shoulder until she turned away from the sunset.

"It's over, Maggie," he said softly, looking down into the dazed amethyst eyes. "I never got on the helicopter. It wasn't me."

She stared through him, focusing on something only she could see. He wished he could follow her wherever she was, bring her back to herself.

"It's burning," she whispered again. "All gone. Can't... can't..." She blinked rapidly, swaying gently in front of him. He held her hand, pulling it against his chest as he watched her. He could sense something fighting, something important, but he didn't know how to help. He could only watch.

"It's not me, Maggie," he whispered, desperate to get through to her. Somewhere inside, Maggie was fighting to get out. He knew it. He could sense her; he could almost hear her screaming. He had to let her know he was there. He still couldn't quite believe that she had given up, that believing him dead had caused her to retreat.

"Maggie." He called her softly, bringing her hand to his lips to kiss her suddenly cold fingers.

Her head twitched to one side, as though turning towards a sound, a frown creasing her features. He pressed her hand to his lips again, trying to get her attention to focus on him, but she seemed to be listening to something only she could hear.

"Maggie." Some of his desperation crept into his voice, making him louder, firmer. But still she wouldn't fix her attention on him. He cupped her face in his hand, turning her head towards him until the dull, confused gaze fixed on him. Slowly she began to focus on him.

"What?" she asked falteringly, blinking away the remaining tears. She frowned, wiping her face as though the tears mystified her.

He sighed heavily. The moment had gone. He didn't need to ask what she had remembered. The open, innocent look in her eyes showed that Annabel was still predominant. He smiled reassuringly, kissing her hand again.

"Nothing," he said at last, holding her hand in his. "Let's go home."

She nodded, giving him a tired smile, before following him obediently.

He waited until she was in the shower before ringing Kate Ross. The feeling of guilt weighed heavily inside. Maggie would hate anyone knowing anything about her, about them. But he had to talk to someone.

Kate Ross sounded sympathetic, the cool ice maiden routine she kept in place when dealing with the other specialists of the Service or the agents themselves never seemed to apply to Macklin. They understood each other as professionals, and Macklin remembered only too well how patient she had been when he had returned from Hong Kong, broken and beaten. Kate Ross had listened when he felt no-one else would. While other specialists treated him either like a rabid dog, or an animal in need of euthanasia, she had always treated him like a human being. No blame, no fear, no expectation of violence. The calm, simple acceptance of him had helped him cope with his feelings of inadequacy and impotence. He had never been good at accepting failure in himself, and for a man who had always operated at the peak of mental and physical fitness to find himself in a position where his nerve had gone completely almost destroyed him. Ross had helped him to make sense of that, until he could take his place as the new trainer, eager to ensure that what had happened to him never happened again.

He just hoped she could repair Maggie as well.

"There is no blue print for this kind of trauma," she explained patiently. "She might wake up tomorrow morning and be herself again. Open the door, and remember everything. Or it may be gradual. Every case is different."

"But how can I tell if she's getting worse?" he asked.

He heard her pause, and could picture the slight pout of her perfectly painted lips. "What do you mean?"

"Annabel is different already," he explained, unsure whether he could make sense of what he had seen unfold in the last two days. "In the beginning, when you saw her, she didn't know anything. She was quite docile."

"Understandable. She had just suffered a major trauma."

"Yes," Macklin agreed with a sigh. "But it's as though she's learning. She's developing."

"Maybe as more of Maggie comes to the fore..."

"It's not Maggie," Macklin interrupted her quickly. "It's – well," he hesitated, cautiously aware of the noises from upstairs and carefully monitoring her movements. "She is Maggie, but not the same."

"Can you try to be more specific, Brian?" The hint of impatience in her voice irritated him. He gave another sigh.

"You're asking me to explain sex to a virgin," he hissed angrily. "Maggie is complicated, Kate. She's tried to be someone else and it never worked for her. She has to be allowed room to be both Maggie and Magpie. You have to allow for this..." he hesitated, searching for the word. "Darker side to her," he finished at last. "Annabel has none of that."

"You mean she's Maggie without the Magpie?" Ross said.

"Yes," he said with a relieved sigh. "And that means she's only half herself."

"And she's having nightmares? About what happened to her and about the explosion?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. About the rape, certainly. She has flashes about the explosion, but they're forgotten as soon as she's over them."

He heard Ross hesitate, could almost picture the thoughtful expression that would be crossing her flawless face. "I have a couple of days off later in the week," she said at last. "Keep a track of what triggers the memories of the explosion, and anything else you can think of that separates Annabel from Maggie. I'll come up to meet you in a couple of days, and we'll discuss it then."

He released his breath, unaware that he had been holding it, awaiting her verdict. "Is she in any danger?" he asked.

"I can't say," Ross replied, an almost sorrowful note in her voice. "The longer she stays as Annabel, the harder it will be. But the mind is a strange thing. It may simply be that Maggie needs time to realise that you're alive. She doesn't trust herself yet. She obviously believes that if she lets her guard down, she will find you've gone. That's why she wouldn't let you out of her sight. It reassures her. But it also means she doesn't have to face her fears."

"So bringing her here with me was the wrong thing to do?"

"I don't know," she said. Macklin remembered how many times he had heard that in the hospital the night he had lost Maggie and found Annabel. "Let's see what the next few days bring."

He replaced the telephone on the handset, staring down as he marshalled his thoughts.

"Who was that?"

Her voice startled him, even though he thought he had been careful enough to keep track of her upstairs. He turned, finding her watching him with a frown creasing her features. She stood in the doorway, an oversized t-shirt swamping her slight frame, her damp hair combed back from her face. She looked suspicious, but then he expected he looked as guilty as he felt.

"Doctor Ross," he said, finding no need to lie to her about that at least. "Just checking up to see how you were."

"Oh." Maggie would never have been satisfied with that explanation, he knew. Annabel, it seemed, accepted what he told her.

The times he'd wished Maggie had been more agreeable haunted him. He'd give anything for one of her tantrums now. The acquiescent Annabel retained enough of Maggie's mannerisms to soothe him, but sufficient differences to torment him.

She settled down in front of the television, folding her bare legs underneath her. He sat in the armchair, unable to trust himself to sit so close to her. He wanted to watch her. If he could not touch her, he could at least satisfy himself by drinking in the sight of her. She seemed oblivious, curled up on the sofa, hugging the cushion to her as she concentrated on the television programme. He didn't even register what they were watching, only the flicking images as they lit her face, making her eyes glitter black and silver. She laughed softly to herself, her face creased with delight, and his smile echoed her pleasure.

Even now, just watching her calmed his soul. Even when she wasn't herself. But there was enough of Maggie there for him to recognise, for her to still pull at his heart strings. Even so, he couldn't help but mourn the missing fire. There were plenty of times when he had sat and watched her, just like this. She had laughed and giggled in the same uncontrived way. Watching her now, he could almost believe everything was back to normal. But then something would happen, some subtle look in her eyes that wasn't Maggie, and he would remember.

Was that what it was like for her, he wondered? Annabel going through the automatic responses to daily living, until something triggered a memory that was wholly Maggie, or Magpie? She had certainly developed from the quiet woman he had first met in that hospital room. Then she had seemed almost two dimensional, missing so many elements that went together to create a whole person. It seemed as though she had grown since then, learned new responses, created new facets to her personality.

The vulnerability in her was something he had always loved. Maggie had learned how to deceive, but it was not natural to her. Her simple, almost child-like responses, her complete lack of guile, had always melted his heart. But it was the fire in her, the rage, the anger, the stubborn pride that had fuelled his passion, made his heart beat faster. He never had to pretend with Maggie, never had to hide who or what he was. Holding her, owning her, and being owned by her – knowing that she was his equal in all things – those were the things missing now. Something he could never explain to anyone, never mind Kate Ross.

She was half of himself, and now she was half of herself. He didn't quite know where that left him.

The white Audi Quattro pulled up outside the house, the gold Capri behind it. Bodie got out of the Audi with a wide grin on his face, arching his back slowly to ease out the stiffness.

Doyle got out of the Capri and fixed his partner with a wry smile. "If she finds out what you got that car up to on the motorway, she'll have your guts for garters."

Bodie jangled the keys in one hand. "What the eyes don't see, the heart don't grieve over, mate," he said with a grin.

"Oh yeah?" Doyle said, closing the Capri door with a slam. "And what's it worth for me not to tell her?"

"Tell her what?"

Macklin's crisp voice came from the side of the house. He hefted the axe across one shoulder with a meaningful look on his handsome face. He managed to keep his face straight as the smile vanished from both Bodie and Doyle's faces. Somehow, he never tired of putting fear into the fearless agents.

"We brought the car back," Bodie announced, as Doyle smirked at his obvious statement.

"So I see," Macklin drawled smoothly. "And in record time." He propped the axe against the wall, wiping his hands on his jeans as he approached them. "Tell me you didn't break the speed limit once."

Bodie bit his lip, trying to prevent the smile from crossing his face. Behind him, Doyle wiped his nose, hiding his smirk. "Erm, well, not once," Bodie said carefully. "Not exactly broke."

"How is she?" Doyle's amusement disappeared, replaced by concern.

Macklin ran a hand through his sandy hair and gave a sigh. "Not quite herself," he admitted reluctantly. "Cowley told you?"

Bodie looked serious, all trace of humour gone. "Some," he said with a nod. "Fugue state, he said. I've seen something similar. Like shell-shock."

Macklin nodded. "Yes, something like that," he agreed. He looked from one man to the other, reluctant to discuss Maggie's problems with anyone else. He hadn't wanted Bodie, and especially Doyle, anywhere near Maggie. He hadn't wanted anyone to see her so vulnerable, not even them. The idea of allowing her ex-lover, Doyle, near her when she was so fragile raised his hackles even more. No matter what Maggie said, he could never feel entirely comfortable with Doyle. Nothing changed the fact that Doyle had spent time with Maggie that Macklin felt was rightfully his. No matter how irrational that seemed. Macklin still remembered the torment of watching Maggie smile only for Doyle, seeing them leave together, knowing they were together. Not even two years of being with Maggie had exorcised the demons of those few months she had been with Doyle.

But Cowley had given him no choice, telephoning when the two men were already en route. And Macklin guessed the wily Scot had done that deliberately.

"Any signs of improvement?" Doyle was normally more considerate around Macklin, as though sensing the man's concealed jealousy. But Doyle's sense of etiquette was limited at the best of times, and his concern for Maggie outweighed his thoughts of what constituted good manners.

Macklin hesitated, not knowing how much to say. Maybe Bodie and Doyle would provide the trigger required. Right now, he was desperate enough to risk it. "She's – just not quite herself," he repeated hesitantly.

As though on cue, Maggie opened the door, smiling when her eyes alighted on the Quattro. Macklin felt himself tense, wondering what reaction the two CI5 agents would receive.

He felt a strange sense of relief when he realised the look she gave them held no recognition, followed by a surge of guilt. He should want her to recognise them; anything if it brought her back.

"Bodie and Doyle brought your car back," he said instead, taking comfort in stating the obvious. He watched carefully to see if the names triggered any response.

"Hello, Maggie," Bodie said smoothly. "She drives like a dream."

"He," she said automatically, stepping forward and holding her hand out expectantly for the key. Bodie dropped it into her hand with a slight bow. "You don't think I'd be crawling in and out of a female car, do you, Bodie?" she asked with a grin.

His precisely edged lips curved into a boyish smile, his navy blue eyes twinkling. "If you did, it's an image I'd treasure," he said.

"How you feeling, Maggie?" Doyle took a step nearer to her, his keen gaze watching her closely.

She turned to him, her smile faltering slightly. "Fine, thanks," she replied, composing herself smoothly. Doyle's gaze flickered to Macklin quickly, sharing a knowing look as both men recognised the brief tremor in her voice. "Doyle, isn't it?" she asked, a frown creasing her brow.

He nodded, affection softening his gaze as he smiled at her. "That's right," he said.

Silence fell between them, each man watching the strangely docile Maggie, afraid to voice their concerns.

"Any other news?" Macklin asked, breaking the uncomfortable pause. Maggie looked relieved when their attention shifted away from her, as though embarrassed by their regard.

Doyle looked up at him quickly. "No, nothing yet," he replied. They knew better than mention the helicopter explosion directly. "Cowley hopes to have something in the next couple of days."

Macklin nodded. "Good." He watched Maggie carefully. Her arms were folded casually, but he could see the tight grip she had on her forearms, her fingertips white with pressure. "Did you want to stay for a rest? Food?"

The two agents exchanged looks. "No, thanks - really," Doyle said reassuringly. "We're fine. Got to get back."

"Yeah," Bodie chimed in, a woeful expression on his face. "No rest for the wicked." He gave Maggie the benefit of his smile. "Take care, Maggie. See you around."

Doyle hesitated as Bodie brushed past on his way to the Capri. A frown crossed his face as he reached out to stroke her arm reassuringly. "Take care of yourself, Maggie, eh?" he said gently.

She gave him a tight smile. "Don't be daft, Ray. I'm fine." She reached up and kissed his cheek quickly. "Go on with you."

Doyle turned from her, catching the venom in Macklin's glare. He gave him an apologetic look, a subtle shake of his head and shrug, before making for the Capri.

They watched them leave, following the golden Capri as it disappeared up the driveway, before turning back to the house. Macklin watched as she walked ahead of him, knowing she was oblivious to the anger coiling in his gut.

"Blue-eyed and Beautiful, and Mop-Top," she said as she entered the house. She paused, stopping in the hall-way, and he knew she had realised what she had said. She turned to him with a questioning look. "Why do I call them that?" she asked.

He shrugged, hiding his rage. "I don't know," he said, unable to stop the curtness in his voice. "You always have."

"Then it's good I remembered, isn't it?" she asked, the same frown of confusion on her face.

"I suppose so," he agreed.

Her frown faded and she turned back, continuing through to the lounge. He remained in the hallway, his hands clenching and unclenching uncontrollably. "I'll finish chopping the wood," he called behind him as he stormed out of the house.

She had no notion he was angry, and obviously completely unaware of what she had done to provoke it. But – she remembered Doyle's name. No-one told her Ray. She remembered him, but she still doesn't remember me. The words screamed through his mind as he tore off his shirt, picking up the axe and striding back to the chopping block. She remembers Doyle – his mind repeated, over and over – She doesn't remember me.

He chopped the wood viciously, using far more strength and energy that it needed. He had to burn off this anger, before she picked up on it. Even Annabel would notice this rage eventually. And then he might have to explain it – and that was more than he could stand.

Annabel paused in the kitchen, trying to remember again what it was she was doing there. She looked down to the mug in her hand. Was she making a drink? Or had she finished one? She shook her head in confusion. Well, it was simple enough, surely? Did she want a drink or not?

She put the mug on the side, feeling the kettle, almost relieved to find it cold. So making a drink then, she thought, reaching to fill the kettle with water and setting it to boil. She stared into nothing, waiting.

Blue eyed and Beautiful, and Mop-Top.

Doyle's trace of a Birmingham accent haunted her. She had heard that before, she knew she had. She had heard it in her dreams, she was certain.

"He thinks you've got a pretty face."

The same Birmingham twang, playful, familiar.

"You know he's never liked me since he found out about us."

She closed her eyes, reaching for the counter as she felt dizziness wash over her. Her arm swept across the work surface, knocking the mug to the floor where it shattered. She didn't notice.

Pain sliced through her head, immediately followed by a tight, gripping agony that seared her stomach, pushing all breath from her body. Her knees gave way beneath her, and she fell to the floor, the pain of her knees impacting on the hard wooden surface lost in the agony lancing through her head and stomach.

Burning pain deep inside her... breath hot on her face, stale cigarettes and whisky... hands grabbing, holding, forcing... a crushing weight on top of her... a choked cry torn from her throat... violation, invasion, penetration... oh God it hurt... Daddy...Daddy make them stop...please …. please... no more... no more...her face pushed hard into the carpet as pain ripped through her lower back and abdomen... the sharp flash of a blade and the cold caress of steel... oh God it hurt... it hurt so much... don't... please... no... please...no...

"Maggie!" Macklin held the struggling woman in his arms, desperate to get through her terror and panic. She lashed out blindly, her eyes tightly shut, her attack unfocused and powerless. He tried to stop her mindless thrashing, tried to control the limbs that struck out, before she hurt herself.

"Please, no, don't!" she howled relentlessly, oblivious to him or anything, locked in the memory and unable to escape.

"Maggie!" Macklin's firm, parade ground voice drowned out her pleas. He had never seen her this terrified, not even in the throws of her worst nightmares, not even as a child in Hong Kong. There had never been a time when he hadn't been able to reach her, to bring her out of them. Until now.

"Maggie, please!" he begged, trying to hold her head steady, to get her to acknowledge him. She stiffened in his grasp, her eyes opening suddenly and focusing on him with an almost insane terror.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed, frantically pushing him away. "Don't touch me!"

He froze, releasing her immediately, watching in horror as she scrambled as far away from him as she could get, cowering in the corner of the kitchen. Her eyes were wide, hysterical with fear.

"Don't touch me," she repeated, her voice dropping.

He held his hands up. "It's all right," he said, trying to force calmness into his voice. "I won't hurt you." He frowned, the terrible sight in front of him filling him with dread. "I would never hurt you," he added gently.

She curled in on herself, dragging her knees into her chest, making herself as small as possible he realised. "They hurt me," she breathed. "They hurt me."

He sat down on the floor, keeping a careful distance from her. "Yes, they did," he agreed. "But they'll never hurt you again." He choked back a sob with difficulty. "I'd never let anyone hurt you."

"They raped me," she said, her violet eyes glassy with barely controlled panic.

He closed his eyes, giving a heavy sigh. "Yes," he agreed reluctantly. "A long time ago, Maggie."

"Not to me," she hissed. "How long?"

"Almost twenty years," he replied sorrowfully. "They're all dead, Maggie. They'll never hurt you or anyone else again."

Her wide eyes watched him fearfully, tears overflowing down her cheeks. "Where were you then?" she snapped, terror and panic making her suddenly angry. "Why didn't you stop them?" she demanded.

Her accusation, however unfair, stabbed through him like a knife. "I wasn't there," he stammered. "I didn't know."

"And what happened to them?" she insisted.

He swallowed, blinking as his eyes misted. "They're dead," he said firmly. "You killed them."

She frowned, confusion creasing her face, her eyes still glittering. "I killed them?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yes."

"I killed them?" she repeated.

He nodded. "Yes."

Her head quirked to one side as though trying to make sense of his words, trying to assimilate them. "Why didn't you?"

He froze at her simple question, at the accusation behind it. Three simple words, and they stopped his heart.

He stared at her, his mind blank. He had wanted them dead, surely. And yet he had never thought of killing them himself. Despite the torture they had inflicted on her, despite what they had done, he hadn't been the one to seek revenge. He had left it to her.

Was that really what she thought? In the deepest, darkest part of her heart - did she blame him?

Had he failed her?

"Why didn't you?" she repeated.

He didn't know.

If there was a hell, Macklin had found it.

"She didn't mean it, Brian. I promise you." Kate Ross' voice held calm certainty, but it did nothing to shake the feeling of having failed Maggie when she needed him the most.

"You didn't see her face when she said it," he replied. He swirled the whisky in the glass, barely tasting it as it burned down his throat. "She meant it."

"She's trying to make sense of it all," Ross continued remorselessly. "It wasn't a memory to her, not at that time. She obviously felt it all over again. It was the shock that was talking, not her."

"She remembered Doyle," he said harshly, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "She remembered his name."

Ross gave a little breathy sigh that rasped down the telephone. "Because he's not important," she said patiently. "You can't rationalise any of this, Brian. Just because she remembers something doesn't mean it's more important to her than the things she doesn't remember. Quite the reverse."

"She remembers the rape, and she remembers Doyle. At least one of those things is important."

"You're not listening to me, and you're not thinking things through," she snapped. "The things she's blocked are the things that hurt her the most, don't you understand that? She can obviously deal with the memories of the rape. What she can't cope with is losing you."

He gave a short bark of laughter that held no amusement. "She couldn't wait to get away from me."

"It wasn't a simple memory, Brian. She relived it. All of it. But she has absolutely no frame of reference in which to place it. Can you even begin to understand how terrifying that must be for her?"

He paused, remembering the panic in her eyes as she had cowered in the corner of the kitchen. "She's never been frightened of me," he said quietly. "Never."

"She doesn't know you now," Ross said firmly. "She may feel safer with you, and she may recognise that she needs to keep you close, but they're both things she can't explain. She doesn't understand. She doesn't remember how she met you, why she trusts you – any of those things that she would automatically refer to in order to make sense of how she feels about you. Add to that the ordeal she relived and it's no surprise she's suffering a breakdown."

"Breakdown?"

Ross sighed carefully. "I'll come up tomorrow afternoon. Meet me at the station, quarter to two. I'll explain more then."

"What do you mean, breakdown?" he insisted.

He heard the hesitation in Ross' voice as she tried to find the right words to explain. "Annabel is fragile, Brian. You know that," she began carefully. "She's only a temporary creation. Maggie is trying to reassert herself, which is filtering through Annabel's perceptions. It's tantamount to Annabel having a nervous breakdown."

"So Annabel is the construct, not Magpie?"

"So it would seem," she agreed. "We won't know for certain until she's more stable, but the persistent fluctuation in her memories, the transient nature of Annabel's own personality, does suggest that Annabel is the defence mechanism, not Magpie."

"So what you're saying is we have to destroy Annabel to release Maggie." His cold pronouncement did not betray the battle inside him – it felt like an impossible decision, who to live and who to die, Annabel or Maggie.

"No," Ross said gently. "We have to let her reassemble herself. Annabel is as much a part of Maggie as Magpie is, you've said so yourself. All you have now is one part of her personality, the one part that could cope. It may not seem like it, but Annabel is actually stronger than Magpie right now. Annabel is the one who could cope without you. After all that Maggie has dealt with in her life, the one thing she couldn't deal with was carrying on without you."

"She sees me every minute of the day," he said. "How can she still not believe I'm alive?"

"Fear does strange things to us, Brian," she replied, calm reassurance in her voice. "Obviously, everything that Maggie recognises is linked to you in some way. And she's blocked it all out. She can't recognise anything that relates back to you. Quite simply, her world has ended, because she thinks you're no longer in it. To recognise you again means letting down her barriers, which means allowing for the possibility that you as you are now are nothing more than an illusion; or that she risks losing you again." He closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him. None of it made sense to his tired mind.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Ross finished at last. "I'll explain it then."

He sighed. "Tomorrow then," he agreed. "Thank you, Kate."

He heard the smile in her voice. "Not a problem, Brian. Look after yourself."

He replaced the handset, reaching for the bottle of whisky and refilling his glass. Perhaps drinking wasn't the best plan, but it was all he had left. He carried the glass and bottle to the fireside, settling down by the fire, poking the embers until they sparked and flashed. Outside, the sky was the colour of ash, the moon rising silver over the monochrome landscape. The only light inside was the golden glow of the fire, the flames cracking occasionally as they licked through fresh wood.

Macklin sighed, raising the whisky to his lips. He had finally managed to calm Maggie, persuading her to take some of the sleeping tablets the hospital had given her before sending her to bed. He resisted the forlorn, guilty look in her eyes, burying his pain behind his cool professional mask. He had years of experience in hiding his feelings from the rest of the world; he could surely hide from her. He just had to remember she wasn't Maggie, and it would be easy. He could hide anything from anyone, but not from Maggie.

Maggie wouldn't flinch from him, wouldn't look at him with fear. When he needed reassurance, she would give it without hesitation. He never had to ask or question her. He never needed anyone else to explain her to him.

No – this wasn't Maggie.

Annabel awoke slowly, swallowing with difficulty. The drugs made her mouth dry, and dulled her already frail train of thought. The room was dark. She was sure it had been daylight when she had come to bed. She tried to focus on the clock beside the bed, needing to blink several times before achieving her aim. Nearly midnight.

She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to fight through the tendrils of sleep that still caught and tugged at her. As she became more aware of her surroundings, she looked around herself, expecting to find the familiar form of Macklin beside her. Whenever she had stirred these last few nights, he had been there, providing safety and security.

The bed was empty. She frowned, doubt beginning to curl inside her. Macklin... tall, so strong and yet so gentle. She hadn't imagined him. She couldn't -

A vague sense of unease filled her as she remembered pushing him away, remembered the terror that had filled her as she had relieved the horrendous rape and torture. And yet it was nothing compared to the pain she felt as she remembered the look on his face. Destroyed, dejected.

She had pushed him away.

She sat up with a groan, hiding her face in her hands. The cruel words she had thrown at him came back to haunt her; each word had pierced him like a barb. He had tried to hide it, but she knew – he couldn't hide the desolation in those twilight blue eyes.

She stumbled into the bathroom, the light vicious on her eyes. She winced until she was accustomed to the harshness of it, before examining herself critically in the mirror. She leaned closer to the mirror, carefully mapping her face with her fingertips, outlining her cheeks, eyebrows and lips.

"Annabel Slade," she whispered, tracing the line of her jaw carefully.

She reached out to follow the same lines on the reflection staring back at her. "Maggie Draven."

No – there was more than that. She knew it.

She turned away from her reflection, splashing cold water on her face and rinsing her mouth, dispelling the last of the unpleasant metallic taste of the drugs, before turning out the light, leaving the room to search for him.

The house was in darkness, making her creep cautiously like a naughty school girl, careful of every sound and movement. The moonlight cast a silvery glow, but where its light did not reach the shadows lurked, looking solid, black as pitch. The bedroom he had been using was empty, no sign that he had even touched the bed. Clothes lay strewn over the covers, together with a towel. She touched it cautiously. It was still damp. Grateful for signs of his existence, she folded his clothes carefully, moving the damp towel from the bed and arranging it neatly on the nearby chair with the rest of his clothes. Impulsively, she buried her face in his shirt, inhaling the sweet spice scent of him. She closed her eyes, allowing the familiar smell to quell the flutter of nerves in her stomach.

He was real. He was there.

Silently, she left the room, wandering the remainder of the house carefully, before descending the dark wooden staircase. St. George and the Damsel glowed colourlessly in the silver moonlight.

She paused in the doorway to the lounge, seeing the flickering glow of the fire. Shadows danced and leapt as the flames created monsters out of motes. She entered the room silently on bare feet, entranced by the shimmering tongues of amber flames.

Macklin lay in front of the fire, staring into its depths with an unreadable expression, oblivious to her presence. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him, the flames giving him a strange, almost unreal quality. He looked like some pagan god of fire, his skin golden in the firelight, his eyes catching the amber glow, his hair glinting copper and burnished bronze. He wore only loose fitting cotton jogging bottoms, hanging low over his hips, the jutting hip bones catching the light. The muscles of his arms and chest were highlighted by the caressing glow of the fire, sculpting them with dark shadows and honeyed lustre. The few fine hairs on his chest caught the light like spun gold. Even the cruel scars across his abdomen seemed to disappear in the soft radiance.

Her mouth felt dry, only this time it had nothing to do with the drugs she had taken. The burning in her face and gut had nothing to do with the warmth of the fire. Her heart beat rapidly in her throat, her breathing shallow and rapid. She watched as he raised his arm, the whisky in the crystal glass glowing like liquid gold in the firelight. The shadows moved in his throat as he swallowed.

She wanted to feel that burning golden skin beneath her hands; taste the liquid fire of him. Make him hers.

"Brian."

He turned towards her, half sitting up in surprise. Her gaze followed the tense muscles of his stomach as he lifted himself, twisting towards her slightly.

"Maggie?" His voice slurred slightly, and she could see the subtle unfocused look in his eyes. "Are you alright?" The normally clipped precise accent slipped into something closer to Cowley's familiar brogue.

She swallowed with difficulty, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. "I should be asking you that," she said.

He frowned, relaxing back in front of the fire. "Dinnae be daft," he chided gently. His storm-cloud blue eyes watched almost warily as she knelt down beside him. The t-shirt she wore rode up her legs, displaying more of her ivory skin. He could feel the warmth radiating from her body so close to his.

"Is this a private party?" she asked, a soft smile on her lips.

He looked up at her before exhaling loudly, pouring a hefty measure into the glass and handing it to her. He clinked the bottle against the glass when she took it. "Sláinte," he said, taking a drink from the bottle.

She sipped the whisky cautiously, watching his throat move as he swallowed. "That's a waste of good whisky," she said.

"Trust me, at this point in time, I dinnae taste it any mair anyway," he said with a wry smile.

She stared down into the glass, watching the liquid reflect the firelight. "This is my fault, isn't it?" she asked softly.

"No." He propped himself up on an elbow, leaning towards her with a sorrowful look on his face. "Ah no," he whispered, reaching out to stroke her arm reassuringly. "You've done nothing wrong."

She looked at him, her gaze travelling over his handsome face, the worried look creasing his features. "I didn't mean to push you away," she whispered softly, the words barely audible. Her lip trembled, her eyes bright with tears.

"Ah, Maggie," he breathed gently, reaching out to touch her mouth with a finger. He traced her lips, his gaze fixed on her mouth. "I cannae blame you for that." His gentle caress froze, as though suddenly aware of touching her, and he withdrew.

She caught hold of his hand. "Do you love me?" she asked gently, her violet eyes wide.

He stared at her, lost in the ethereal glow of her skin in the firelight. "Aye. Mair than anything," he said firmly. "Every day. Since you were fifteen years old."

She lifted his hand to her face, gently stroking her cheek against the back of his hand. He gasped softly, his lips falling apart as he breathed more heavily. His eyes darkened.

"Am I so different to Maggie?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No," he breathed, the word barely voiced from his dry mouth. "No, you're not," he said, swallowing hard.

"Then why don't you want to touch me?" she asked.

He gasped in shock at her sudden accusation, blinking as he wetted his lips with his tongue. "You don't -" he began, hesitantly. "Maggie, you don't even know me," he said at last.

He tried to pull his hand free, but her grip was relentless. "Either you don't love me, or I'm not Maggie," she said, a determined look in her eyes. "The only time you could bring yourself to touch me these last few days is if I'm in a panic. Otherwise, you can barely stand to look at me."

He shook his head softly. "That's not true," he whispered.

"Yes it is," she insisted. Her violet gaze glinted in the firelight, almost hypnotic. He couldn't look away. "Is that normal for us, Brian? Because it doesn't feel right to me."

"Maggie -"

"Or is it because you thought you'd remind me of being raped?" The harshness in her voice silenced him, the look in her eyes suddenly hard and unyielding.

He blinked, frowning in confusion. "Magpie?" he breathed.

She tilted her head to one side, an oddly bird-like movement he thought bizarrely. "Magpie," she repeated softly. "That's what Maggie's short for, isn't it?" Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "No. That's not right either," she said as though thinking aloud. "It's something else."

"Morgan."

He surprised himself, almost thinking someone else in the room had said the name, shocked to hear it in his own voice.

She froze, her eyes glazing slightly at the sound of her name. For one terrible moment, he thought he had pushed her over the edge. She hated the name – her mother's maiden name, he had discovered, given to her by her no-doubt well-meaning father when he'd registered her birth. But no-one had ever called her that, except perhaps for a host of frustrated teachers.

She blinked rapidly. "Morgan Draven," she said carefully. She shook her head. "No. Whatever name is on my passport."

She said the words in a soft flat voice. Twenty years before, she had said the same thing to him on the black tarmac of an airport. The first time they had met. The first and last time he had ever called her Morgan.

"When did you know you loved me?" she asked him suddenly. "I was fifteen. Why fifteen?"

Her question took him by surprise. He had never told her this. "I overheard one of the men in the office," he stammered. "He was barely twenty years old, but he'd noticed you. I heard him talking in the showers." Bloody hell – have you seen the legs on her? Wouldn't mind them wrapped around me. He swallowed, remembering the coarse words, and the anger he had felt. "I wanted to kill him," he confessed.

"But you didn't."

"Couldn't. Just made damn sure he never got near you."

"But that was nearly twenty years ago," she said. "And we've only been together – what – two years?" Her eyes glittered almost feverishly, trapping him in the glow. "What took you so long, Brian?" she asked relentlessly. She had him caught and she knew it, he realised. He had no escape. "Was that because I was raped as well?"

"No." His denial was harsh and desperate. "No," he repeated. "Not that. Never that."

"Then what?" she demanded. "You love me now; you loved me then. But you won't touch me now, and you obviously didn't then."

"How could I?" he asked, distracted by the calm almost calculating accusation in her manner. "For God's sake, Maggie," he breathed, choking on the words. "You were raped. Four men raped you and you were fourteen years old." He shook his head, his eyes full of pain. "I thought even thinking of you made me as bad as them," he admitted, the words dragged from him unwillingly. "And now – you don't remember me." His voice broke, ragged with pain. He looked at her beseechingly, begging her forgiveness. "God help me, Maggie, I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm sorry they hurt you, and I'm sorry I didn't make them pay. And – oh God – I'm sorry if I ever made you think of them."

She reached out, taking his face in her hands, hushing him softly. "Shhh, Brian." She wiped her fingers over his eyelids gently, removing the tears before they could fall. She leaned forward to press her lips to his eyes, feeling the soft eyelashes tickle her lips as she kissed away his tears. "Shhh," she repeated. He lay unmoving as her hands caressed his face gently. She leaned closer to him, bringing her body next to his, the bare skin of her leg pressed against his naked torso.

She looked down at him, a smile on her lips so close to his, benediction in her eyes. "How could you ever remind me of them?" she whispered softly, her breath caressing his face. She took a deep breath, as though preparing herself for an argument. "They raped me," she said firmly, staring deep into his eyes. "They pinned me down and took it in turns." Her words were calm and deliberate, but no fear haunted her blue eyes. "They smelled of whisky and cigarettes. And I didn't know how long it took. It seemed over in seconds, and yet it seemed to last forever." She stroked his cheek gently, reaching to run her fingers through the fine golden silk of his hair. "But you could never remind me of that," she said softly, her eyes hazing with affection. "What they did had nothing to do with sex. It wasn't lust. Wasn't even fucking." Her gaze roamed over his face, watching her fingertips as they traced his features with a featherlight touch. "They just wanted to hurt me," she explained gently. "It was just another way to hurt me, no different to choking me or cutting me. They just wanted to hurt my father. That's all." She leaned forward slowly, brushing his forehead with her lips. "That's all, Brian," she said, her voice iron hard despite the softness. She released his head, reaching instead for one of his hands, tracing his long fingers carefully. "You could never remind me of them, because you would never hurt me like that." The breath caught in his throat as she raised his hand to her neck, wrapping his long fingers around the pale column firmly. Her gaze held his. "You can reject me, you can push me away. You can stop loving me," she said calmly. "That's the only way you can hurt me. And do you know something?" She leaned forward, forcing her throat against his hand as she brushed his lips with her own. "That would hurt me more than anything they ever did," she whispered against his mouth.

"Maggie," he breathed, leaning forward instinctively to claim her mouth with his, aching with the press of her silken lips against him, the warm mouth opening beneath his. His tongue slid to meet hers, choking a sob in the back of his throat at the sheer joy of kissing her. His hand on her throat moved around to the back of her head, weaving his fingers into her hair to pull her closer to him.

She pulled away from him slightly, gazing down at him with love in her eyes. "I don't remember anything," she whispered. She gave a soft laugh. "I've never done this before," she said, amusement rippling through her voice.

He reached out, his hand trembling as he ran his fingers through her midnight hair. "Don't be afraid," he whispered against her lips.

She shook her head. "I'm not afraid," she promised firmly. She took his hand in hers, guiding it to her breast. His breath hitched in his throat as he felt the warm flesh beneath his hand, feeling her nipple hardening against his touch. "I'm definitely not afraid," she breathed, leaning forward to kiss him again.

She was hesitant, almost shy apart from that moment of forwardness. He pulled her on top of him, guiding her legs between his. The warm press of her against him intoxicated him more than the whisky he had consumed. He moved slowly, letting her learn his touch, lost in the sensation of her skin against his. His hands gently eased the t-shirt over her head, throwing it out of the way, eager to bring his hands back against her skin.

She felt the muscles in his arms cord and flex around her, yet his touch was featherlight, gentle and coaxing. The warmth of the fire could not compete with the heat of his touch, his breath against her skin as he kissed down her body. She moaned and arched, desperate for more. Slowly, he moved onto his side, laying her next to him. He hushed her gently as she reached for his jogging pants, removing her hand as she tried to push them lower over his hips.

"Shhh," he whispered softly into her mouth. He traced her lips with his tongue, feeling her tremble with need. He smiled before lightly dragging his teeth over her full lips. "Slowly," he said. "We've all night."

She whimpered, sending his pulse soaring. He laughed from sheer joy, sliding his hand down her side, feeling her shudder and jerk against him. The warmth of his skin against her sent tendrils of desire sparking through her; his touch burned like a flame she couldn't get enough of. She wanted to touch him, taste him, feel him possess her. The words were shouted in her mind, begging him, pleading for him, but her throat could only constrict, making wordless gasps and whimpers of need.

Her hands slid over his chest, across his sides, making him jerk and flinch as she trailed her fingertips lightly over his sensitive ribs and hip bones. Her wandering hands continued to his back, gripping him reflexively, wordlessly urging him on. Her shuddering gasps filled his ears as he kissed slowly down her body, caressing the pulse pounding in her throat with his lips and tongue. He outlined her collar bone lightly before kissing lower until he kissed the soft skin between her breasts. He cupped one breast in his hand, gently teasing the already erect nipple before kneading the firm flesh. He trailed his tongue around her other breast, gradually tracing a line leading inexorably to her nipple. She gasped and shuddered, arching up desperately into his touch.

Her heart hammered in her throat, her breath rasping and hoarse. She never wanted him to stop, but she wanted more. She clutched the back of his head, pushing him against her firmly, willing him to understand. His hand continued down her body, lightly skimming over her waist and stomach. She flinched, gasping, and he looked up suddenly, staring into her face with a look of concern. He smiled when he saw the wide eyed look of wonder on her face, reaching up to kiss her slowly and thoroughly.

He trailed his fingers up the inside of her thigh, lightly teasing the sensitive skin, before following the crease of her hip. She arched against him, begging silently. Remorselessly, he traced her hip bone, running his thumb along the sensitive skin of her hip, until she bucked against him, whimpering uncontrollably. When his long fingers finally slipped between her legs, gently probing and stroking, she gave a cry, her body jerking violently, pushing her hips against his hand.

His touch drove all thoughts from her mind, just the simple need for him, to hold him close, to feel him touch every part of her. She felt light-headed, unable to draw enough air into her lungs to calm the clamouring beat of her heart. He stared down at her, watching her carefully for the slightest sign of panic or fear, but all he could see was desire, desperation in every wordless gasp and pant torn from her lips. With infinite slowness, he slid his fingers inside her, watching in awe at the way her eyes widened, her mouth opening in a gasp of pleasure.

She thought she would die, and she didn't care. The slow relentless sweep of his fingers over her centre filled her world. It was everything she wanted, and still not enough. She writhed against him, her eyes closing in desperation.

She bit her lip, and he lowered his mouth to hers, teasing her mouth open again rather than watch her abuse that soft skin. She clutched his shoulders hard, her hands gripping and releasing reflexively. Her body arched against him, every muscle tense, and he felt her shuddering release against his deftly probing fingers; felt the slow pulse inside her echoing through the gasps escaping from her lips as he kissed her, exploring her mouth with the same thoroughness as his fingers against her. Slowly she relaxed against him, her muscles softening again as she returned to her senses.

"Mack," she breathed softly, her eyes dark and heavy. He couldn't resist the plea in her voice, the silent entreaty in her eyes. He slid out of the jogging pants, gasping as his arousal pressed against her naked skin. She moved instinctively, sliding one long leg around him to pull him towards her. He watched her carefully, terrified that even now fear would flare in those violet eyes and she would push him away as a stranger.

She had called him Mack, he realised. He stared into her face, but the nervous look was all Annabel. But Annabel was still Maggie; still the shy, damaged, enchanting girl he had met twenty years before. The cynical assassin may have gone, but the seeds were still there, hiding behind the clear, guileless gaze.

"Maggie," he breathed, sliding slowly, inexorably, into her, feeling her welcome him deep inside her body. Her eyes widened, fluttering at the feel of him, and she groaned, the sound mingling with his own gasp of pleasure.

She felt him slide slowly in and out, each glide bringing him deeper and deeper inside her. He stared into her eyes, a look of amazement on his face. She had no memories of making love before, nothing but this; and yet the look on his face matched her own for wonderment at the newness of it all. Every time the first time; every time the same perfect match. She never wanted it to end, the perfect feeling of understanding, completeness, like nothing she could ever imagine. And she knew, from the look of awe in his beautiful twilight eyes that he felt exactly the same.

He pulled her closer to him, feeling the deep, burning orgasm build inside him. He held his breath, holding back on his climax until she was ready, concentrating on the slide of her against him, the rippling tightness around him. Her teeth clenched tightly before her mouth opened, gasping for air, as they moved in perfect sync.

"Mack," she stammered breathlessly, her eyes widening.

He held her firm as she threw back her head, her body stiffening against him as her shuddering orgasm rippled down his length. He thrust hard into the tightness, pushing against the clenching muscles, until he couldn't hold back any longer, shouting his release, his cry mingling with hers as he pulsed inside her.

They lay entwined in front of the fire, unable to move even if they had wanted to. Idle kisses lapped at warm skin, tasting sweat and sex and love, until they fell asleep, tangled in each others arms.

Macklin stretched lazily, consciousness slow to return. His limbs retained the heavy languor of sleep, feeling leaden but comfortable, like warm honey. Breath stirred against his chest and he felt the yielding softness of her body against him, her head snuggled comfortably on his shoulder. Her arm lay across his chest, her leg hooked around his, wrapping herself around him like ivy. He smiled in lazy contentment, his arm resting on the flare of her hip.

He groaned in good-natured complaint when he felt her move against him, her head leaving his shoulder. He opened one eye cautiously to find her staring down at him, laughter glowing in her amethyst gaze.

"If you haven't got a hangover, you're a lucky, lucky bastard," she said with a grin.

He couldn't stop the smile spreading across his face. "You're half right," he said, leaning towards her to kiss her firmly. "But I'm not a bastard," he added. She giggled, pushing him back against the pillows before moving forward to kiss him, slowly and deliberately.

They had returned to the bedroom as the fire began to die, keeping close to each other until he had paused beneath the stained glass window to sweep her into his arms, carrying her the rest of the way to their room. He had laid her down among the pillows of their bed, and made love to her again in the silvery moonlight, before they had finally fallen asleep.

He reached up to hold her head in his hands, lacing his long fingers through the black silk tresses. She kissed him thoroughly, with a knowledge she had learned in a night-time of love-making, and his body responded to her instinctively. She slid on top of him without breaking the kiss, and he felt her legs straddle him, hearing the hitch in her breathing as her own arousal built. Softly but firmly, she rocked her hips against him, teasing his growing hardness with her warmth, until finally she tilted her hips to catch the blunt end of his cock against her, pushing down hard on him so that he penetrated her tight ring of muscle, sliding fully inside her. His gasp as her body clenched around him was smothered by her kisses. He gripped her hips firmly, pulling her down, matching his thrusting hips to the rhythm of her body bearing down on him. Their kiss became more and more desperate, their questing tongues in counterpoint to the heat building inside as he thrust deeper and she pushed harder. Finally, she sat up abruptly, her hair a jet black curtain that swept up and behind her as she threw her head back and howled. Her body gripped him firmly, spasming hard against him with the force of her climax. He held her hips tightly as he thrust upwards into the grasping, clenching warmth, before she tore his orgasm from him, screaming his release as he pulsed white-hot inside her.

She collapsed against him, her breathing as harsh and ragged as his own. He wrapped his arms around her, cradling her against him. He couldn't move, his orgasm leaving him weak and heavy. The weight of her in his arms betrayed her own satiated languor. But it didn't matter. Neither wanted to move any time soon, content to lie in the security of each other's arms.

They dozed lightly as the sunlight grew stronger. Eventually, unwillingly, they stirred. She moved to the side of the bed, stretching with a feline grace, and he pulled her back into his arms with a grin, leaning down to kiss her. She laughed softly as he released her again, letting her clamber from the bed and head for the bathroom. He lay back in the bed, his arms outstretched above his head, and listened to the noise of her taking a shower.

He could have blamed the whisky, but he wasn't in the habit of lying, especially to himself. Besides, he'd been stone cold sober the last time. Last night, in the haze of alcohol, it had all made sense. She was still Maggie, after all. Somehow. Somewhere.

He covered his face with his hands, smothering the groan that escaped his lips. Who was he trying to fool? Could he really believe she was Maggie when it suited him, then not Maggie when she behaved so differently to what he expected? He just didn't understand anything any more; didn't understand how she could look like Maggie, sound like her, taste like her – and then something, some subtle look or word would sound wrong, would jar against his expectations.

What if Maggie never recovered?

He wiped his hands down his face, covering his mouth as he stared at the ceiling. Would her memories always land in her head, all the sensation, emotions, pain, torment – all at once? Would he have to hold her, kicking and screaming, every time?

He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the shower.

Ross. He had to meet her in town at quarter to two. He sat up suddenly, turning to the clock. 10.40. If anyone could explain what he faced, it would be her.

He glanced at the bathroom door. Whoever was in there, there was enough of Maggie there for him. He knew it. He had felt her shadow in every caress, tasted her in passionate kisses. She was Maggie. She had to be.

Maggie wasn't in the bedroom when he came out from his shower. He dressed quickly before leaving to look for her, fastening the buttons on his shirt as he left the bedroom. He stopped in the hallway, finding her staring thoughtfully at the stained glass window.

He jogged down the handful of stairs to the half-landing, standing beside her to look up at the colourful image.

"St. George and the Damsel," she said thoughtfully.

He laughed, ruffling his still damp hair into some semblance of order before reaching to pull her into his embrace, resting his head on top of hers, her back pressed against him.

"Lancelot and Guinevere," he corrected.

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me – I know my mediaeval romances," he said firmly.

She turned her head to one side, feeling his smooth cheek rest against her temple. "He looks like you," she said at last.

He looked at the dark golden hair of the stern faced knight. Guinevere's hair glowed dark blue in the sunlight. "The second most perfect knight in Christendom," he said with a wry smile. "Why, thank you."

She laughed, pulling away from him. "Gives you something to aim for," she said with a grin, reaching back to take his hand in hers.

She stood, oddly silent as she stared at his hand in hers, idly playing with his long fingers as though they fascinated her. He held his breath, sensing something important. "I remember things, you know," she said at last, a faraway sound to her voice.

He frowned, looking at the top of her head as she looked down at his hands. "What sort of things?" he asked softly.

She sighed, a strange weariness in her manner. "I know how far it is to the main road, how long it would take me to run there, whether jogging or sprinting," she began, in the same distant, distracted tone. "I know there's a village nearby, and a town just beyond there. I know what they look like, but I don't know the names. I know every escape exit in this house, but I don't remember living here." She toyed with each of his long fingers in turn, giving each one her undivided attention. "I know how far I can shoot comfortably with a rifle, whether it's a Ruger, PSG1, L96A1, M82. I can look outside and I know from the way the breeze moves the leaves on the trees what I need to do to compensate for wind." She gave a small shrug. "I don't even know what any of that means," she said in a whisper. "But I know it. I even know the sound a bullet makes when it hits someone. I know blood doesn't look like it does on television. I know the sound someone makes when you shoot them in the head, the difference when you shoot them in the chest. I know what happens when a man is strangled, the way the eyes bulge, and how blood vessels burst in the eyes. I know the sound they make, how the lips turn blue. I can remember waiting in the dark, but I can't remember what I was waiting for." She held his hand up, palm towards her as she fit her own hand palm to palm against his. His hand engulfed hers. She looked up at him at last, her indigo eyes desperate with questions. "What does any of it mean?" she whispered. "I don't understand. It's just flashes and ideas, but none of it makes sense."

He curled his fingers through hers, lacing them together as he reached to stroke her cheek gently with his other hand. The back of his knuckles caressed her skin. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch for reassurance. "It's you," he whispered. "It's what you are. Everything you know."

"It's violent," she whispered, her voice shaking.

His hand slid around to cup her head, pulling her against him. She buried her face in his chest. He could feel her gasping breath as she sobbed against him, her chest heaving with the force of her emotions.

"Shhh," he soothed gently. "It's not who you are," he whispered. "It's what you know. Never who." He laid soft kisses against her hair. "You were forced into a violent world, Maggie. And you survived. You beat it. But it never touched you. Not really. Not inside." He cradled her against him, rocking her gently. "You're still my girl," he breathed. "You'll always be my girl."

"Who's Annabel Slade?" she whispered gently, her voice catching on her sobs. "And why do I remember other names?"

"What names?" he asked softly.

"Jennifer Flaherty," she sighed. "Maeve Taylor. Kathy Faye." She sniffed wetly. "Who are they?"

"You," he replied simply, stroking her hair soothingly. "They're all you, Maggie."

"How?" she asked. "Why?"

He sighed, wondering what solace he could give. "It's complicated," he said slowly. "Maybe that's why your memory is so shaky now. You spent a long time trying to be other people. Maybe you thought this was your chance."

"To forget anything about being Maggie Draven?"

"Perhaps," he agreed reluctantly.

"To forget you?"

He hesitated, closing his eyes against the thought that she might – somehow, however unconsciously – want to forget him. He pressed his lips to her head, breathing in the scent of her for comfort. "I don't know," he whispered at last. He pulled away from her, leaving his hand against her head, and gave her a reassuring smile. "But whatever name you use, I still love you," he said firmly.

"A cold blooded killer?" she said harshly. "Isn't that what I am?"

His expression faltered, flinching at her tone. "Perhaps," he agreed reluctantly, his hand continuing to sweep through her hair. "But not heartless," he added. "Never that." He met her gaze steadily, resolution in his eyes. "There's a difference between cold-blooded and heartless," he said firmly.

"I can't see it," she whispered.

He smiled. "I can," he said. He pulled her back into his embrace, rocking her softly, content to hold her, to feel her breathe. "Why don't you come into town with me?" he offered, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath her ear. "Change of scenery might do you good."

"And if I have another fit of hysteria?" The self-loathing in her voice was all too clear.

"Well, it's a quiet town," he said with a smile. "They could use some excitement."

"Was it wise, bringing her into town?" Ross asked, fixing him with a cool look as she stirred her coffee.

Macklin raised an eyebrow. "Leaving her on her own didn't seem a good idea either," he said. "She's not an invalid, and hiding away isn't going to help her."

"She's still fragile, Brian -"

"She's stronger than either one of us give her credit for," he interrupted firmly.

Ross took a sharp breath, her head jerking to one side as her lips pursed in irritation. "So – tell me," she began in a clipped voice. "How exactly did you counsel a young girl who had been raped?"

He stirred his tea deliberately, his jaw firm as he clamped down on his temper. "I didn't counsel her," he replied slowly. "She'd had quite enough of that in the hospital before she came to Hong Kong."

Ross leaned back in her chair. "Counselling is vital in these cases. The importance can never be over-estimated." She made an irritated gesture with her hand. "The underlying trauma takes years to heal, if at all."

"I taught her to fight back," Macklin interrupted calmly. "I taught her to trust herself." He placed the teaspoon precisely on the table, his voice modulated so that the other café patrons could not hear his reply. "I'm sure what you're saying is right, Dr. Ross," he continued in the same smooth voice. "But surely even you can appreciate that each case should be dealt with on its own merits."

"Of course," she agreed crisply.

"Maggie didn't need to learn that not all men would hurt her. She didn't need help in putting the blame where it was deserved," he said. "She knew exactly where the fault lay. She killed the men responsible before she was 18 years old," he said, coldly and deliberately. "And she did it very carefully and precisely."

"Surely not even you would suggest that was a normal, healthy reaction?"

"I've never been a fourteen year old girl who's been brutally raped, Kate," he replied, his anger bleeding into his voice. "And neither have you. So I don't think either one of us is in a position to criticise."

Ross conceded the issue reluctantly, her cheeks flushing from the rebuke. "Still," she insisted. "You do realise she has certain personality disorders – almost sociopathic, in fact."

Macklin smiled like a crocodile. "And who in this job hasn't? Including me?" He reached for his coffee. "You should be grateful," he added. "It's nutters like us who keep you employed." He sipped his coffee, watching her with laughter in his steel-blue eyes. He knew the game; she would be deliberately caustic, almost confrontational. Whatever it took to provoke a reaction. It was how she tried to get past any façade; get through the act to the truth beneath.

She sighed heavily, her mouth twitching into a smile. He was far too wily for her tricks, she knew. "You can't trigger her memories by pinning her to the mat or putting a rifle in her hands," she said firmly. "Her instinctive reactions may be the same as Maggie, but you would just add to her confusion."

"I'd never suggest either of those things," Macklin said with a frown. He sipped his coffee carefully. "For one thing," he continued. "It wouldn't be safe. Maggie's instincts, as you call them, are to kill. Oh, she recognises the difference between training and real life," he added. "Subconsciously, she differentiates. She can always pull back at the last second. But I wouldn't risk it, not in her present condition."

Ross shook her head in disbelief. "You're right," she said quietly. "You are a bunch of nutters."

Macklin grinned at her over his coffee. "Now you're catching on."

She gave him a wry smile. "So where is she, your tame psychopath?"

Macklin nodded, glancing across the road to indicate a large bookshop opposite them. "Over there, browsing."

"True Crimes section?"

He gave her a droll look. "That's quite enough of that," he said with dry humour.

She smiled apologetically, acknowledging her sarcasm. "And why does she think we're here?"

"She knows," he replied, straightforward honesty in his gaze. "I can't say she's entirely happy about it," he admitted. "But Annabel is somewhat more compliant than Maggie."

"I'm sure you're loving that," she said. Her fine eyebrow arched over a dark brown eye.

Macklin gave her a sharp look. "Don't even joke about it," he said, more biting than he intended.

She looked apologetic, her smile fading instantly. "I'm sorry, Brian," she said solemnly. "That was uncalled for."

He stared into his coffee, uncomfortable with the sudden tension between them. "She is Maggie," he said firmly, as though trying to convince himself as much as her. "Sometimes," he added, because he couldn't help being honest. He chewed the inside of his lip distractedly. "Sometimes, I don't know who she is," he confessed softly.

Ross looked sympathetic. "As you said, she's had a lot of experience trying to be other people, fooling people into believing she's someone else." She shrugged. "Maybe she got so good at it, she's fooled herself. At least for a while."

"She doesn't want to remember." Macklin finally voiced the thought he had been hiding from himself these last few days. "She's happier not remembering."

Ross gave him a calculating look. "I don't think so," she said softly. "I think, if anything, Maggie is honest enough to know that the only way she's ever happy is when she's true to herself. Annabel isn't that. It isn't her." She leaned forward, laying one hand gently on his in reassurance. "And she needs you, whoever she is," she said earnestly.

Annabel peered around the doorway of the bookshop, watching the café across the road with a suspicious eye. Seeing Macklin sat with another woman, even though she knew the reasons for it, caused a surge of jealousy in her that left a bitter taste in the back of her throat. Ross had a calculating, perfect beauty – all cool poise and calm elegance.

God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another... The fierce, angry words came unbidden to her mind. What was that? Go to, I'll no more on't; it hath made me mad... Ah. Hamlet, then. Of course.

She paused, frowning. She knew Hamlet? How did she know Hamlet?

She shook her head, dismissing the thought. She was in a book shop. Obviously, something was disturbing her addled wits. As though they needed further muddling.

She left the shop empty handed, wondering whether it was time to interrupt the far-too intimate tête-à-tête going on the forecourt of the café across the road. In the distance, the howling wail of sirens suggested someone was going to make the afternoon far more eventful. She turned to the sound, watching as the few cars on the road moved aside, like Moses parting the Red Sea.

The BMW hurtling around the corner didn't seem to be doing too badly, she noted with a kind of sardonic approval. The two police cars chasing it - both V8 3.5 litre Rovers, she noticed, without bothering to question how she knew – should have been doing better than they were. The fishtailing BMW seemed to be on the ragged edge. She gave a disapproving shake of her head at the inexperience that resulted in the car ploughing across the centre line into oncoming traffic. That hadn't gone according to plan.

Neither had it been anticipated by either of the two police cars. The one car had been in the process of pulling alongside the runaway BMW, trying to nose the front of the car into safety. But the sudden swerve pushed the Rover out further. It careened over the other carriageway, mounting the pavement with a crash, before hurtling through the tables and chairs of the café.

The café.

Annabel's heart stopped beating. She watched in slow motion as Macklin pushed Ross to safety, before the Rover ploughed through the delicate wrought iron table, sending table and chairs scattering in all directions. Macklin disappeared from view under the bonnet of the Rover.

Annabel blinked. And died inside.

Ross watched the police car limp steadily back to the road, building up speed as soon as the four wheels were back on the tarmac again. The palms of her hands were scuffed from landing on the hard pavement, and she felt the beginnings of a bruise on her hip.

She looked across to Macklin. He had thrown her out of the way, rolling himself expertly as he did so. When she had seen him disappear under the bonnet of the car, she thought he would surely be crushed under it, but miraculously – thanks no doubt to those finely tuned reflexes and the cold logical thinking she had been teasing him about – he had landed, ducked and rolled seemingly all at the same time, missing the tyres by hair's breadth.

He stood up smoothly, his calculating gaze travelling over her, assessing any damage, before offering her his hand. She took it gratefully, unsure of how to begin thanking him.

The words died in her throat as she caught sight of Maggie.

"Oh God, no," she breathed.

Macklin turned in time to see the black haired woman collapse to the floor. Without pausing, he burst into a full sprint, dashing through the now moving traffic with a speed that took Ross completely by surprise. She followed after him, dodging the traffic as best she could, until she reached him.

He was already on his knees on the pavement, the prostrate woman in his arms. Passers-by noticed the drama.

"I'm a doctor," Ross announced, loudly and clearly, before anyone could start to interfere or get in her way. She crouched beside Macklin on the pavement.

"Brian, let me see her," she said gently.

Macklin looked stricken, pain etched into his face, his eyes burning with it. For a second, Ross wondered what damage losing Maggie would do to Macklin. But before she could touch Maggie, her eyes fluttered rapidly, opening hesitantly. Confused violet eyes stared up at him.

"Mack?" she whispered softly. Wide-eyed panic suddenly gripped her. She sat bolt upright, grabbing his arms hard as she stared at him in amazement. "What the hell happened? The helicopter blew up. I thought you were -" She broke off, suddenly choking on the words. "Mack, I thought you were dead," she finished in a broken whisper.

He stared down at her, breaking his arm free of her vice-like grip to stroke the hair from her face. "Maggie?" he said hesitantly, looking deep into the indigo eyes.

She looked shocked, relieved, horrified – and deep in the flickering depths he saw something else. Something he couldn't quite define, but had always been there. He'd first seen it in the eyes of a fourteen year old girl, glaring at him defiantly when he'd met her on the tarmac of an airport in Hong Kong; watching him warily on a thousand training exercises; flashing furious anger and embarrassment as he'd pushed her away in a jasmine scented garden in Hong Kong; the challenging look when she'd walked into his training facility nearly fifteen years later. Even hiding behind the love and affection. Always the diamond hard menace of Magpie.

He frowned, unwilling to allow himself to hope too soon. "Maggie?" he asked again, cradling her head in his hand.

She looked around, her gaze alighting on Ross. She frowned in confusion. "Kate?" Her wits returned, her movements becoming sharper and more focused as she looked around herself. "Where the hell am I?" she demanded.

Macklin pulled her into his arms, crushing her against him. "You're back," he said, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice. "You're back."

Maggie made a soft gasping noise as the air was expelled from her lungs with the force of his embrace. "Where have I been?" she asked.

Maggie sat, sullen and sulky, as Ross stared deep into first one eye then the other. She sighed impatiently as questions were fired at her, answering with sarcasm and insubordinate defiance.

Macklin couldn't stop smiling.

She had no memories of the last few days, nothing since dropping Macklin off at the docklands and watching the helicopter explode. The orange fireball was the last thing she could remember.

She was uneasy in explaining anything else, uncertain in a way that was quite unlike the normally so confident and self-assured Maggie. She had absolutely no recollection of leaving docklands, and no idea why she had gone first to Hammersmith and then to Park Lane. She didn't remember the hospital, didn't remember any of the questions or examinations she'd been subjected to, and had no memories whatsoever of arriving in the Lake District.

Maggie – never comfortable admitting her weaknesses or ignorance – was becoming increasingly annoyed.

When Ross stood aside, allowing Macklin closer, Maggie seemed to relax. He stroked her cheek, almost afraid he was dreaming.

"How long?" she asked again. She couldn't seem to understand how it was possible to lose so much time and have not even the slightest memory of any of it.

"Five days," he said.

She shook her head, still unable to grasp the concept. "I don't remember," she repeated.

"You never will," Ross said, with professional detached callousness. "Annabel Slade served her purpose. Obviously the shock of thinking Macklin dead made you shut down, and she stepped in. The same shock – believing Macklin dead – sent Annabel into remission and -" Ross gestured sharply with one hand. "Here you are."

"Annabel," Maggie said, her lip curling as though the word tasted strange. "Why Annabel Slade?"

"The cards you happened to be carrying," Macklin explained simply.

She huffed, a combination of surprise and disbelief. "It's bizarre."

"The mind is capable of some very strange things," Ross agreed. Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "And that's just a normal mind."

Maggie gave her a drolly contemptuous smile. "Thank you for your professional opinion, Doctor Ross," she scoffed sarcastically.

Ross smiled. "You're right," she said. "Annabel was far more easy-going."

Maggie frowned, righteous indignation in the glare she fixed on Macklin. "Easy-going?" she demanded.

Macklin grinned. He couldn't help it. The more she argued, the more hostile and belligerent her mood, the more she proved she was Maggie. He wasn't being fair, he knew it; there was far more to Maggie than a bad temper and vicious tongue. It was simply that he had missed it so much these last five days.

Ross caught his look. She couldn't hide her own relief. The damage to Maggie had been cause for concern, but the damage Maggie's withdrawal had caused to Macklin had been just as severe. Seeing them together, finally complete, Ross began to realise what Macklin had been trying to tell her. They matched each other, completed each other. They teased and baited and adored each other.

She felt quite jealous.

"There are no physical problems," she said. "There will be no lasting damage. You'll never remember the last five days, but that won't be a problem. You won't regress."

"Annabel won't come back?" Maggie seemed suddenly wary, as though fearful of attack from herself.

Ross shook her head firmly. "Annabel won't come back," she asserted. "But she wasn't a stranger, Maggie. She was still part of you. So you don't have to worry about a complete personality change or some kind of possession."

Maggie looked slightly embarrassed. "Oh I've been told I could do with a personality transplant," she said with a wry smile.

Ross smiled. "Well, you won't be having one." She folded her arms firmly. "You are - quite definitely - you, Maggie. For better or worse."

The ringing telephone took Macklin away from the sofa where he'd drowsed the late afternoon away. Maggie lay in his arms, a comforting warmth. She was tired, exhausted, as though none of the sleep of the last five days had actually registered with her. But she was here.

"Macklin," he answered, stifling a yawn.

"Brian," Cowley's voice greeted him, bringing him instantly alert. "How is she?"

Macklin turned back to glance at her, sprawled out on the sofa with a kind of decadent abandon. He smiled. "She's pretty much back to normal," he said. "Ross examined her. Couldn't find any residual problems. It's just rest and recuperation for a few weeks."

"That's good." Cowley's voice purred down the telephone, his Scottish brogue warm and sincere. "No lasting damage then?"

"No," Macklin replied. "She doesn't remember anything of the last five days. It's a complete blank."

"That's probably a blessing," Cowley said. "I have the report on the explosion," he added, his tone turning brusque and efficient as he turned to business.

"And?" Macklin tensed cautiously, awaiting the response.

"Accident," Cowley replied. He sighed. "Aye, nothing more than a mechanical fault in the fuelling systems. Fuel starvation killed the engines, killed the rotors. And killed three men." His voice held sadness. However much he and Willis had fought over the years, it was still a tragedy. Both for him and the families of the other two men.

"Just an accident." Macklin stared out of the window, the early evening sunlight golden, almost tangible, like warm honey. It seemed such a senseless end for men who dabbled in death every day. And it could so easily have been him. After so many years risking everything – after nearly losing it all in Hong Kong – it would have been one simple thing that had killed him.

Like the car that afternoon, he thought with sudden clarity. Another pointless way to go. As if there was ever a good way to die. Such was the frailty of life.

"Aye," Cowley said, oblivious to the thoughts filling Macklin's head. "Willis' replacement seems set to be Peterson," he added. Macklin heard the slight smile that would be crossing the wily old war-horse's face at the news.

"Oh, that will please her," he said.

"Aye. She may have to start showing him the proper respect."

"There's a first time for everything," Macklin replied with a grin. "I'll break the news then. Thank you for calling to explain, George."

He replaced the handset after Cowley's warm goodbye and turned back. He felt a stab of panic when he saw Maggie was no longer stretched out on the sofa. He couldn't shake the fear that Maggie would be lost again, that it was no more than his own wishful thinking that she was back. He scanned the room, berating himself for not noticing she had moved, before leaving the lounge to search the rest of the house.

He found her perched on the stairs on the half landing, staring up at the stained glass window of Lancelot and Guinevere. The news of her brother's promotion could wait, he decided as he sat beside her, watching her quiet contemplation of the stained glass images.

"This was the reason I bought this house, you know," she said quietly.

"Lancelot?"

She turned to him, a quizzical look on her face. "Lancelot?" she said. "I thought it was St. George."

Not one flicker of recognition in those violet eyes, he realised. A conversation only a few hours old and already lost forever to her, remembered only by him.

"George has a dragon and a red cross," he explained patiently. "Lancelot du Lac wears blue."

She pointed to the figures. "So she is - ?"

"Guinevere," he said. "Although she looks like you."

She grinned at him. "And you look like Lancelot," she said. "You'd look good in chain maille."

He gave her an affectionate smile. "Chafes," he said conspiratorially.

She laughed softly, her smile melting into a faraway look as she stared at the window.

"He reminded me of you," she said softly, almost wistfully. "There were times when I couldn't bear to look at him, because he reminded me so much of you."

He watched her, strangely moved by her quiet confession. A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth, her eyes shining with a look of dreamy reflection. She stared at the figure of the knight. "Some nights – or days – I'd come and sit here with a bottle of whisky and talk to you"

"What about?" he asked, the sound of his voice almost surprising him after her soft, hypnotic words.

"Oh, all kinds of things" she said with a sigh. "Sometimes I'd just tell you what I'd done, things that had happened. If I got really drunk, I'd ask you what was wrong with me, why didn't you love me." She gave an embarrassed laugh. "Makes it sound as though all I did was get maudlin drunk and obsess over you, doesn't it?" she said, giving him a wry look. She turned back to the window with a smile. "It wasn't all like that," she said, her voice wistful once more. "It just made me feel better sometimes. Pretending I was talking to you."

"Why didn't you?" Her accusation came back to haunt him, sending cold shivers across the back of his neck.

"Why me?" he asked.

She turned to him, a look of surprise on her face. "Who else would understand what I was talking about?" she said simply, as though the answer were obvious. "You always were the one who never seemed to judge me, or treat me as less than anyone else. To everyone else, I was a victim. To you, I was just me. You always understood."

"Then why didn't you come back?"

She looked away, uncomfortable with the direct question. Two years, and there were still things they seemed to think it best not to talk about.

"I knew you'd understand," she admitted reluctantly. "But I didn't think that would be enough. I knew you'd be angry."

"What? So angry I'd never speak to you again?" His tone suggested such an idea was ridiculous, but her eyes, sad and huge in her pale face, betrayed her. "You thought I'd do that?" he asked incredulously.

"I thought you'd hate me," she whispered.

"Never," he said firmly. "I could never hate you."

She shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. It would have been fairly easy." There was a harsh note behind her flippant answer. "I can be a nasty piece of work. And back then, I was positively evil."

He wanted to take her in his arms, dispel the self-loathing he could hear behind the casual words. "I knew," he said instead. "I knew everything you did. And I never hated you."

She smiled – a sad, forlorn smile. "Then I was a complete fool, wasn't I?"

He watched her, feeling a burning need to ask the question that had eaten away at him for so many days. Since Annabel had spat the accusation at him, in her fear and terror.

"Did you hate me?" he whispered, watching her carefully for any sign of dissembling. "Did you blame me?"

She looked confused. "For what?" she asked. "Hate you?" She shook her head. "Why would I ever hate you?"

He licked his lips, his mouth dry. "For pushing you away," he murmured, forcing himself to say the words. "For not killing the men who attacked you myself."

Her frown deepened. She moved to the step beneath him, staring up into his face. The twilight blue eyes were dark with guilt.

"What made you think that?" she demanded quietly.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head briefly. "Nothing" he insisted, looking away from her.

She gave him a hard look, her gaze shrewd as she scanned his expression with an expert eye. "Did I say something when I was Annabel Slade?" she asked carefully.

He shook his head firmly. "No."

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. She could smell a lie, he thought ruefully. She took his hands in hers, lacing his long fingers with her own.

"You may be my knight in shining armour, Brian," she said, slowly and deliberately. "But I'm not a damsel in distress. You taught me that." She reached up to lay a hand against his cheek. "There are some battles I have to fight for myself," she said firmly. "That was one of them. You can't fight them all for me."

He nuzzled her palm, pressing his lips to the warm skin. "I should have done more," he murmured into her hand. "I should never have let you leave."

"Done what exactly?" she asked, removing her hand as she frowned angrily. "Let me leave?" Her voice had a sharp edge, warning him. "How would you have stopped me?"

"I was a high ranking Secret Service agent," he said calmly. "I could have stopped you quite easily, if I'd found you."

"Did you look?"

"Turned Hong Kong upside down," he admitted. "Until Cowley confirmed you'd killed Davies."

"You couldn't have found me." she said softly. "I went underground."

He eyed her nervously. How she had left Hong Kong – how she had found the money – had always been something he had been too afraid to ask her.

"You never checked the fight clubs," she said, holding his gaze. "People disappear in fight clubs all the time."

He closed his eyes, his head lowering. "Oh dear God – Maggie..."

"It wasn't so bad," she said calmly, easily. "Punters took one look at me and the odds against me went through the roof. 50% cut to me, and after two months, I was out of there."

"To kill the men who'd raped you," he said, his voice thick with regret. "I should have killed them," he whispered harshly.

"To kill the men who murdered my father," she corrected him. "And how could you have left Hong Kong, come to England, tracked them down, killed them, and got back without drawing attention?" she demanded. "Besides, it was my decision whether they lived or died. My choice. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way."

He stared into her indigo eyes. There was no regret in there, no blame, no sadness. Just acceptance.

"Whether I won or lost is a matter of opinion," she added, her voice lowering. "But it was my battle."

"Because I pushed you away, that night in the garden," he said quietly.

She sat back, laying her hands in her lap with a sigh. "Well, that took longer for me to accept," she admitted ruefully. "I thought you didn't want me because I'm scarred. Because I'd been raped. Second hand goods."

He shook his head. "No," he said vehemently. "Never that." He watched her with sad eyes. "I loved you so much, I didn't know what to do," he admitted in a softer voice. "I handled it wrong."

She shrugged. "It's over with. Besides." She grinned playfully. "If it wasn't for my nefarious activities, you'd have to love me for my mind or my body, instead of for my money."

His answering smile was weak and unconvincing.

She stood up, bringing her head level with his as he sat on the stair. She knelt on the step, forcing his legs apart so she could kneel between his strong thighs and put her arms around his neck to pull him against her. She cradled his head to her breast. His arms wrapped around her, holding her to him firmly.

She pressed her lips to the top of his head, soothing him gently. "You did nothing wrong," she said. "I never blamed you for any of it. How could I? You were the one who put me back together again." Her arms tightened around him. "You didn't make me into the Magpie," she said softly. "What happened to me didn't define me. It didn't make me." She pulled away from him enough to allow her to tap one finger against his forehead meaningfully. "I never let them in here," she whispered. "You gave me that strength."

"You were hurting," he said softly.

"And you taught me how to stop getting hurt," she replied. "Mack, even if I'd never been raped, or my father murdered, or any of the whole Greek tragedy ever happened, I'd still be who I am. I'd still be me, whatever name I use. You gave me that."

He reached up to stroke her face gently, a smile curling his lips. "I didn't give you anything," he said softly. "You were always that stubborn."

She smiled, leaning down to plant a light kiss on the end of his nose. "Well, my mother was certainly somewhat unhinged," she said with a grin. "I suppose that's genetics for you. Even my half-brother has a peculiar grasp on morality."

"A skewed world view, perhaps," Macklin agreed reluctantly. "No different to me."

She kissed his forehead gently. "You're the second best knight in Christendom," she whispered against his skin. "And maybe it's not Guinevere. Maybe it's Morgan le Fay."

He moved his head slightly, angling his face to bring his lips against hers in a soft kiss. She pressed against him, yielding to the strength of his arms around her as his kiss turned more demanding. He broke away, his storm-cloud blue eyes darkened with desire.

"Morgan le Fay?" He nodded. "Well, that would be more fitting." He smiled against her lips, feeling her breath against his skin. "But you're more than that, my Maggie," he whispered. "My Maggie," he breathed softly, claiming her mouth again in a deep kiss.

The world was locked away, of no importance to them. The Knight held his Magpie, and they were complete.

Epilogue

Maggie ducked, throwing herself gracefully into a forward roll to get herself as far away from Macklin and the swinging night stick as possible. She landed in a crouch.

"So," she said, breathing lightly despite the exertion. "Did you shag her?"

She brought her arm up quickly, the night stick against her forearm, and blocked the blow that crashed down on her. The force reverberated through the stick along her arm, sending her fingers numb. She loosened her grip on the stick, but immediately caught it in her left hand, twirling it expertly like a majorette. She swung it in an arc, causing him to leap aside out of the way.

"Shag whom?" he enquired, no sign of breathlessness in his easy tone.

"Annabel Slade," she said, standing upright, keeping her eyes fixed warily on him as they circled each other. She shook her right arm vigorously, trying to bring the sensation back to the numbed fingers.

"Annabel Slade was you," he said firmly. He dived forward, swinging the stick towards her ribs. She weaved sideways away from the blow, ducking low to the ground. The night stick swung across her back, skimming her t-shirt lightly but not impacting. The split second his midriff was exposed, she jabbed forward with her stick, catching the centre of his stomach expertly.

He gasped loudly as the air was forcibly expelled from his lungs. She had caught his solar plexus with pinpoint accuracy. He folded in on himself, desperately trying to pull air into his starving lungs while he dived out of the way of the downward blow from her stick.

"So that's a yes, then?" she said. He glanced at her warily. There was a note of anger in her voice, a sharp jealous tone.

"Whether I did or not is immaterial," he wheezed painfully. "You and Annabel Slade are the same person."

"That's not what you said before."

Her attack was precise and deliberate, and he could see the grim determination in her blue eyes. She was angry, but the anger was controlled. He concentrated on anticipating the flurry of blows, trying to guess which were feints and which were genuine. He missed a low sweep of her legs which connected with his ankles, knocking him to the ground. He rolled, narrowly avoiding the controlled punch that landed where his head had been. With a smooth movement, he locked his night stick against hers, the two batons entwined, and used it to pull her towards him. Wary of her old injuries, he placed his foot in her stomach, using it to push her upwards, his long legs taking her high into the air. He controlled the fall, sending her over his head to land with a thud against the mats. He heard the loud ooff as the air was forced from her body by the impact.

He scrawled quickly around to pin her to the mat before she could recover, straddling her chest and using the night stick to press against her throat. She tried to reach his face, her fingers curled to scratch and tear, but he was too far away for her to reach. She pushed against his stomach, but he flexed the iron hard muscles against her blows, knowing she was not in the position to put any real power behind her punches. She gasped, her desperate movements forcing her throat harder against his baton than he intended. The fury in her indigo eyes did not abate; if anything, she grew angrier. He felt the flex of muscles in her stomach as her legs rose, her torso pushing down to apply leverage. Her ankles locked around his throat, pulling him backwards.

He released the baton, throwing it aside as he reached for her legs. He forced them from his throat, pushing away from her to free himself from her clutching limbs. He rolled onto his back, trying to put distance between them, but she followed his movements, reaching for the other discarded baton still above his head. She pushed against him as he lay on his side, forcing him face down into the mat before locking the baton against his throat, pulling back on it, causing his spine to arch against her as she straddled his hips.

He pushed up, ignoring the pain of the choke hold as he manoeuvred himself onto all fours. Before she could regain her balance, he rolled onto his back, pinning her beneath him. She retained the tight grip on the baton, pulling him back against her.

His back arched, his head level with hers against the mat as she maintained the firm choke hold. His eyes rolled in his head, swivelling to look at her. She gasped through her clenched teeth, saliva flecking her lips as they pulled back from her teeth in a grimace of rage. The indigo eyes glaring at him held very little humanity.

"Maggie," he croaked hoarsely. He could break the hold, perhaps. He could at least buy himself more time. But to do that, he would have to hurt her. He stretched out one arm, laying it firmly against her throat, indicating what he intended to do unless she released him. He could easily bring his arm sweeping down against her throat, driving his elbow in to the vulnerable flesh. Instead, he pressed against her, applying the same choke hold on her as she had on him.

The violet eyes flashed sudden doubt, her grip faltering. It hadn't been the press of his arm against her throat that brought her to her senses, but the look in his steel-blue eyes.

He forced the night stick away from his throat as she released him, pushing himself away from her quickly before she changed her mind.

He crouched opposite her, massaging his throat with one hand as he watched her warily. She sat up, throwing the baton aside, the same calculating look in her eyes.

"Annabel Slade was you," he insisted, his voice hoarse from the choke hold she had had on him. He wasn't so naïve he didn't realise where her furious rage had come from. Over the last three weeks, there had been warning signs; barbed comments and cold looks.

"She couldn't have been," she replied. She looked away from him, and he caught the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks. "It wasn't me," she insisted.

"What? You think I've been unfaithful?" he demanded, determined to let her see the ridiculousness of the accusation.

"You screwed someone, and it sure as hell wasn't me!" she snarled at him, all her fury exploding in one outburst of rage.

"If it wasn't you, who was it?" he yelled back at her.

"Someone far nicer from the sound of it." Her voice broke, unable to hide the pain she'd been carrying inside for so long. "Someone not prone to temper tantrums and black humour."

He brought his legs around so he sat on the ground with them in front of him, and stared at her in amazement. "You think I preferred her?" he asked.

"Well who the hell wouldn't?" she snapped, her eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. "She's everything I'm not – easy-going, funny, charming. Reasonable."

He leaned forward, bringing himself up on his knees. "She was you," he said firmly, each word enunciated with careful precision. She glared at him sulkily. He reached out, grabbing her upper arms firmly, pulling her up until she knelt in front of him. His twilight blue eyes sparkled angrily as he glared down at her. "Do you fucking hear me?" he demanded. "She was you. Only not quite. That's all. Still you." He shook her gently, desperate to make her understand. "Don't you ever think I would look at another woman. Don't you dare accuse me of being unfaithful. Did I sleep with you in those five days? Yes, I did." He caught the flash of pain in her eyes at his confession, and shook her again more firmly. "It was you. Your eyes, your flash, your fire. For God's sake, Maggie – do you seriously think I'd want someone – even you – if they were nothing more than a compliant, docile puppet?" He frowned in frustration, unable to find words to dispel the illogical jealousy in her.

"I thought maybe you might have preferred her," she admitted in a small voice.

He closed his eyes, sighing deeply. He pulled her into his arms, his bruising grip easing into a caress. He ran one hand through her hair, cradling her head against his shoulder, his arm pressed into the middle of her back, his other arm tight around her waist.

"I love you," he said firmly, each word stressed harshly. "For God's sake, Maggie." He pushed his face into the side of her head, deep into her hair. "Why can't you accept that? Why do you insist on hating yourself so much that you can't believe anyone can love you?"

Her murmured reply was lost in his shoulder as she clung to him. He pulled away with difficulty, looking down into her face with a frown. "What did you say?" he asked.

She looked ashamed, her violet eyes wide. "I know it's ridiculous," she admitted, embarrassment flooding her cheeks. "I can't help it. I'm jealous."

He stroked through her hair gently. "Maggie – every second of every one of those five days, all I could think of was how much I missed you, how much I wanted you back," he explained softly. "Annabel was you, enough of you to keep me hopeful. But she wasn't all of you." He pressed his forehead against hers. "I want all of you, Maggie," he said firmly. "All of you – all the sweetness, all the anger, all the innocence and all the darkness. I can't get enough of you."

"I worry I'm not enough for you," she admitted in a whisper.

"Maggie," he breathed. He pulled her closer to him, brushing his lips against hers. She clung to him hungrily, eagerly reaching for him, lacing her fingers through his dark gold hair to hold him fast to her. He had intended the kiss to be a brief reassurance, but the desperate hunger in her lips destroyed his intentions. Her mouth opened beneath his, inviting - begging for his invasion. She moulded her body against him, every plane and muscle of her warm and alive as she pressed against him. He could no more resist her than the tides the pull of the Moon.

She pulled him down onto her, opening her knees to allow him to lie between her legs, swinging her legs around to wrap around his own. Her hands remained buried in the soft bronze of his hair. Her kiss was sweet and desperate, her body arching against him in silent plea.

He broke the kiss to stare down into her desire darkened eyes. "Please," she whispered hoarsely. "Love me. Just me." The simple need in her eyes destroyed him. His hands swept possessively down her sides, gripping her waist and holding her firm against him. She pushed into him, surrendering to him.

"I've always loved you," he whispered, laying feather soft kisses against her eyes, her cheeks, her neck. "Just you, only you. Always you." His questing lips found hers again, taking her mouth in a deep, devouring kiss.

Their clothes were shed quickly, desperately. Each one unwilling to break contact with the other more than absolutely necessary, but aching with the need to feel as much skin against theirs as possible. She arched against him, pressing herself into his erection. He gripped one hip in his strong hand, pulling her against him as he slid inside her in one smooth, powerful stroke. She gasped at the sudden invasion, throwing her head back as she felt his heat penetrate deep inside her, taking her breath away.

They moved together powerfully, the sheer force of their need driving them. She lifted her legs, bringing her knees higher to allow him to penetrate even deeper, surrendering herself completely to him.

He raised himself from her, looking down at her, naked and wanton beneath him. His hips slid against her, driving himself into her with long powerful strokes. She arched against him, luxuriating in the feeling of his heat deep inside her. The steel-blue eyes watched her, seeing the love hazing in her desire darkened eyes. She smiled softly, warming his soul.

"You're mine," he whispered hoarsely, feeling the building pressure at the base of his spine, his nerves singing as his climax built. He bit his lip hard, holding back on his orgasm until he had felt her own release against him.

She reached up, pulling his head back down to hers, kissing him softly, desperately, until he released his lip to kiss her back. She held his head in both hands, staring deep into his eyes.

"You're mine," she said, repeating his words back to him, harsh with her laboured breathing. "You love me, and you're mine." The avowal ended as she threw back her head, her world coming apart behind her eyes, everything centring on the delicious thrust and slide of him inside her, the building heat and overwhelming sensations. She thrust against him, her cries matching the rhythm of the clutching heat inside her, rippling down his length. He relaxed into the feeling, burying himself deep inside her, his hoarse moans mingling with hers even as his orgasm pulsed in time with her own.

He collapsed against her, landing to her side and pulling her with him so that they lay, limbs entwined. Her hair covered his face, and he inhaled the sweet scent of her as his hammering heart beat slowed. She lay against his chest, feeling the warm sheen of sweat on his skin as it slid against hers from the motion of his breathing.

This was everything. This was their world. This was all they ever needed. Each other.