She existed in negative space. People filed in through the main doors, approached her and took her hand, complimented the house and her dress, and moved on toward the sound of the orchestra playing in the parlor. She stood at William’s side, their bodies separated by inches; she felt further away from him than she had in the whole of their relationship. Further than the early days before she’d known his name, known anything of the true Manderley or Drusilla. Further than the night she’d first lain in his bed, her body still warm from his, listening to him whimper his dead lover’s name. Further than the numerous thoughtless blunders she’d made referencing the woman who should be here. Further than anything. She stood at William’s side but they were miles apart.

He wouldn’t look at her. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. He hadn’t done more than hastily scan her dress to make sure she hadn’t managed another horrid gaffe before muttering that guests would be arriving and she was to receive them.

Buffy wondered if he recognized the dress. The one he’d removed from her trembling, virginal body so many months ago. She wondered if he thought of that night at all like she did. The way he’d caressed her, brushed soft kisses across her skin, held her hand, rocked against her as he unlocked her body’s secrets with his own.

Her life had changed forever that night.

His had not.

Buffy continued to nod and smile, greet the faceless multitude of merry strangers, feeling very much like an imposter. William had told her it would be like this—greeting people and smiling until she was certain her face would freeze. And though he hadn’t made it seem like fun, she’d anticipated it. She’d anticipated being the dutiful hostess; anticipated being the graceful woman at her husband’s side. She’d imagined moments filled with private glances and soft grins, the way they often silently communicated when unable to speak candidly. She’d thought he’d hold her hand as he did when they sat in company, gently squeezing it every time he needed to tell her something but couldn’t breathe life to words. She’d seen it all well before it happened. Standing beside William, enjoying the private way they spoke in public. Feeling anything other than how she felt now.

Every bit of her ached and William would not look at her. There was no recovery from this.

“Buffy.”

The sound of her name was so startling she nearly leapt out of her skin. Hope shooting through her veins, her eyes darted to William, but he stared stubbornly ahead; the look of a man who knew he was being watched but didn’t dare meet her glance. It took an eternity to understand the voice she’d heard wasn’t deep enough to belong to her husband, and another embarrassingly long beat before she realized Wesley was standing before her.

“Oh,” Buffy said, attempting and failing to conceal her disappointment. She flashed him an apologetic glance, which he answered in kind. “Wesley. Is there something—”

“We’re dancing,” he informed her shortly, taking her by the hand. He tossed William a look of mild disgust, then shook his head and led her away before she could even think to offer a protest.

Not that she would have protested. The air around her head seemed to thicken and the rush of blood she’d sorely missed the last hour rushed back. People around her swirled and laughed, pouring champagne down their throats and having what appeared to be a wonderful time.

People looked at her. People noticed she and William weren’t speaking.

“He’s a git.”

Buffy glanced up, surprised to find herself in Wesley’s arms. It took a few seconds to realize he was guiding her around the floor, watching her carefully, his eyes weighted with compassion.

She didn’t want compassion. She wanted William.

And despite how terrible he made her feel, her loyalty was to her husband. “No, he’s not,” she replied. “He thought—”

“Buffy, he’s a world-class, blinded wanker who doesn’t know what he has.” Wesley shivered and shook his head. “I don’t care what he thought. What he said to you was unforgivable.”

She blinked stupidly. “Wesley…he’s your friend.”

“And you aren’t?”

“You only know me because of William. He—”

“And I suppose my friendship with him automatically aligns me at his side, even when he’s a dolt?” Wesley’s eyes softened. “Will is like my brother…well, my brother were I employed by my brother. I can be angry with him and love him at the same time.”

His words were an echo of what Anya had told her upstairs. Love between siblings came with the added benefit of clear-sight, whereas the love of lovers was so often accompanied by rose-colored glasses. Anya said Buffy couldn’t be angry because she was in love with William, and perhaps that was true. Perhaps she was so starved for his affection she couldn’t be angry or defensive. She couldn’t see anything but what she would never have.

Was it possible to miss someone when they were across the room? Miss them so fiercely the fabric holding her together split thread-by-thread with each passing second? She could barely breathe for missing William. She wanted his strong arms around her; no matter how comforting Wesley might be, he wasn’t who she wanted. He wasn’t William. She wanted William so badly, wanted to beg his forgiveness and rest her head on his shoulder and let him hold her. Even if he never looked at her the same, she just needed to be in his arms.

“You did nothing wrong, Buffy,” Wesley assured her.

Then he whirled her around and landed her directly in William’s waiting embrace. The move was so surprising she nearly tripped over her dress. Just seconds ago he’d been across the room, but he wasn’t now. He was with her. He closed an arm around her middle and took her hand in his.

His eyes finally met hers. She felt so small.

“Dance with me,” he whispered.

It seemed her life had become a walking contradiction. A millennia ago, she’d realized she was in love in William and she’d known nothing in the world could ever come of it. Then he’d proposed marriage, reshaping her world, giving her new hope. For a few wonderful hours, she’d envisioned herself as his salvation. As the one to bring light back into his life. As anything other than what she actually was.

She’d envisioned becoming the lady of Manderley, only Manderley had never been hers. She’d envisioned her love for William being enough to sustain them, but the truth was far less forgiving. She’d envisioned so many things.

So many things.

When given precisely the thing she wanted the most, she never knew what to do with it. Now the thing she’d desired so fervently just seconds before was suddenly pressed against her. Suddenly swirling her around the room, and while her head continued to yearn for his shoulder, she knew somehow it wasn’t welcome.

“Love the dress,” William murmured, his fingers sliding over her shoulder to caress the lacey fabric. “Almost as much as the first time you wore it.”

Her heart broke. “Will—”

“Not now. Just dance with me.”

Buffy swallowed hard and nodded, her eyes glazing over with tears. But she couldn’t duck her head. She couldn’t bury herself away. She just had to dance, hoping no one noticed. Hoping she could make it through the next few minutes without breaking completely. Anya had been wrong—there was no way to have a good time tonight. Not with Wesley, who only reminded her of how much she wanted William, and not with William, who would never look at her the same way again.

She was in the arms of the man she loved but she couldn’t touch him. They were miles apart.

As soon as the band died, she broke away from him. Another second would have betrayed everything and then she would have been nothing but a sniveling mess in the midst of strangers. She felt him gazing after her but didn’t dare turn around lest she betray herself and break.

Buffy didn’t get very far. Cool fingers hooked under her elbow and steered her to the side and she quickly found herself in the comforting shelter of a dark corner, a wine glass unceremoniously shoved into her hand.

“Good on you, honey,” Anya said appraisingly, raising her own glass to her lips, wordlessly implying Buffy should do the same. “Leave him high and dry.”

She shook her head. “I would have embarrassed myself…he was there but so far from me.”

There was an awkward pause. “Well, let him believe otherwise.”

“I don’t know how.” Buffy glanced down, shivering. “I just want to be…are you certain it would look negatively upon William and Manderley if I go upstairs? I don’t think I can stay down here much longer. Everyone keeps…looking at me…expecting things—”

“Of course,” Anya said bluntly. “You’re the lady of the house, Buffy. This is your party.”

Buffy’s treacherous eyes wandered across the room. William stood where she left him, Wesley at his side. He was staring at her.

And she felt nothing but cold.

“Nothing about this is mine,” she whispered.

It wasn’t intentional. In fact, Buffy made a point to avoid William for the rest of the night. This was, however, a rather difficult feat seeing as he made no such effort to do the same. He didn’t ask her to dance again, but when her will broke and her desire to look at him overrode her desire to maintain her dignity, she found his eyes fixedly locked on her. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking—if his gaze was one of anger or regret. If he felt anything of what had happened earlier.

She avoided him with the hope he would come after her. He didn’t. He just looked, and the distance between them expanded with every second.

Thus it wasn’t intentional when she stumbled upon them. In her attempt to evade William she’d similarly made the effort to dodge Wesley, for good as his intentions might be, he was simply a reminder of what she wanted.

It wasn’t intentional but it happened all the same.

She found herself by the staircase in the main foyer, their voices carrying over the laughter and the music in the other room. And though her feet knew the proper thing to do was pivot and promptly return to the masque, she couldn’t move.

She could only listen.

“I don’t care what you saw,” Wesley was saying, his tone heated. “I don’t bloody well care if she walked down in Drusilla’s negligee. You know what you’re doing to her, don’t you?”

There was a short pause before William replied. “I lost my head.”

“You’re losing her.”

Silence filled the corridor. The walls seemed to hum.

And then he said, “I know.”

Another beat. Wesley was clearly waiting for something else, and when nothing came, his voice hit a shrill Buffy had never heard before. “And does it not bother you? This girl would walk through fire if you asked. All she wants is—”

“Wes—”

“I love Buffy,” Wesley said, then added hastily, “like a sister. You can’t keep doing this to her, Will. The way she looks at you…”

“She doesn’t know me.”

There was a roar from the other room. William’s voice cracked and he sputtered something else—something Buffy didn’t hear. Not that she wanted to hear anymore. Not that she could move away. Her blood had frozen in her veins and her tired eyes threatened to weaken her resolve with more weeping. But she couldn’t move away. Not even as her heart split and shattered, scattering along the perfect marble floor. Not as William’s muffled voice, thick with emotion she’d never before heard, broke over the laughter again.

“…and she can’t. She can’t know me,” he was saying. “She can’t know that part.”

“Because you say so, I suppose?”

There was a pregnant pause followed by a rustle of fabric. She envisioned him wiping his eyes and mirrored the image her mind presented, terrified she would do something to announce her presence. She suffocated on the gulps of air she denied her lungs and drowned in the tears swelling in her throat.

Her feet refused to move.

Not while William spoke. “She can’t know that…seeing her dressed like…I felt like I’d fallen into…she could’ve been…and I couldn’t touch her.”

A long-suffering sigh rumbled through Wesley’s throat. “I know,” he replied, defeated. “I know that. But Will, Buffy is not Drusilla and she never will be. Either accept that or start being honest with her…just stop these blasted mind games. They’re killing her, and God knows she doesn’t deserve that.”

Feeling finally returned to her legs and at once she found herself moving. Moving, moving, moving until she was back among the guests. Back among people who laughed and drank and danced. People who looked at her and whispered things. Was she crying again? Buffy hardly noticed. She pressed a hand to her cheek but her skin was dry. She met Anya’s concerned eyes and quickly turned away. She didn’t want more lectures on bravado anymore than she wanted more wine. She didn’t want anything but for the night to be over.

Perhaps this was a dream. Perhaps she had yet to wake up. Perhaps it was actually the morning before the ball and she had a chance to do everything again.

Oh God.

How could a broken heart pound so hard? Didn’t it know it was broken?

The air around her head was warm. Eventually, the music drowned into a dull buzzing and the dancing figures swirling across Manderley’s majestic floor slowed, caught in a time rift only Buffy could see. She stood awkwardly to the side, her face a porcelain mask. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t pretend to smile anymore. Anytime someone approached her, asking her questions or wondering if they could get her something, her lips would part and some seemingly intelligible response would tumble forward. Whatever she said was enough to purchase solitude.

Enough to replay the conversation she hadn’t meant to hear until she felt her ears would bleed.

William was right. She didn’t know him.

She didn’t know him at all. He hadn’t wanted her to know him. Not once. Not once had he let her in. He would smile at her and squeeze her hand and kiss her brow. He would make love to her body and take her on walks to the Happy Valley, but he didn’t let her know him. He didn’t want it.

He hadn’t let her close because he wasn’t meant for her. He was meant for Drusilla.

And he always would be.

“Buffy.”

She glanced up wearily. It was Anya.

“Buffy, I think you have a headache.” The words were slow and deliberate, the unspoken message unmistakable. “A very bad headache. Why don’t you go lie down and see if you feel better?”

Several seconds passed. People laughed. The air hummed.

“I have a headache,” Buffy said, barely hearing herself.

Anya nodded. “Yes. I was wrong before. You shouldn’t over exert yourself…especially when you’re feeling ill. You’re too…generous with your guests.” She motioned to the shapeless blur of people behind her. “Please, go lie down. You’ll feel better. The music can’t be helping.” A pause. “With the headache.”

Buffy nodded and turned, walking without direction. She navigated dancing couples, bypassed circles of guests who were enjoying a good anecdote, flaming the inner inferno with the roar of their merriment. Back into the darkened foyer where she’d been just moments before, but it was empty now. Back until her tired feet were confronted with the task of carrying her upstairs.

A sudden gasp of life in the corner directed her gaze to the west. Winifred was swept in Wesley’s arms, their mouths fused together with passion which twisted Buffy’s stomach.

Thankfully, they didn’t notice her. No one did.

No one save Jasper, who waited for her at the head of the stairs and faithfully followed her to her room.

Buffy laid awake hours after the party died down. The dog was at her side, resting, her hand tunneled through his fur and enjoying the cold comfort of the rise and fall of his even breaths. She’d never let Jasper on the bed before but she didn’t think she could bear to stomach the evening alone.

Not after everything.

So she lay. Her face was cold and wet, the whole of her trembling every few seconds—every time the memory broke through the barrier and replayed the conversation she’d heard in the foyer. Every time she heard William say she didn’t know him.

She didn’t know him, and he couldn’t touch her.

How long had he known this? Did he intend to speak with her?

She didn’t know. All she knew was she couldn’t sleep.

Instead, she sat with Jasper and watched the empty space beside her. The space where William slept.

Only William wasn’t there.

And as night rolled into morning, realization hardened and sank. He wasn’t going to join her.

He left her thoroughly alone.

 

Golden sunshine splattered across the carpet, stretching over the vanilla bedspread until it was impossible to ignore that morning had arrived. Buffy didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want to look over and confirm William had not joined her last night. Her sleep had been tumultuous at best, wrought with images of balls and gowns and laughing strangers. Of a painting in the foyer come to life. Of Mrs. Hart’s frozen smile, grim satisfaction sparkling her eyes in ways which made her look positively inhuman.

William had not come to bed last night. Jasper lay faithfully in his place, favoring Buffy’s palm with affectionate licks every time he arose on his stubby legs and resituated his warm, furry body for a more comfortable position. She envied the dog so much. He knew nothing of heartache or despair. Knew nothing of the hollow cold claiming every facet of her insides, or the tears crusting against her cheeks. How it ached every time her lungs fought for air. How four little words could render her thoroughly gutted.

She doesn’t know me.

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut and choked back tears. Her head swirled; her skin was cold and clammy but she felt—at the same time—she was burning from the inside. The very fabric of her being was jerked and pulled in every which direction, allowing her no reprieve no matter how hard she screamed. Sleep so often provided a new spin on hopeless situations, but daylight refused to give her amnesty. There was nothing this morning to comfort her in what she had learned the night before.

Her marriage was over.

The ache in her chest exploded, a hard, raucous sob clawing for freedom. Her marriage was over. William wasn’t hers. He never had been and she’d been such a blind fool to think otherwise. To think she could make anything between them work when he so obviously wished to remain with Drusilla. Drusilla, who was dead but never gone; whose ghost provided him more comfort than any living woman ever could. He was trapped in grief but too in love with his lost wife to move onto the one with whom he’d replaced her.

William would never be Buffy’s. He remained forever Drusilla’s husband. He couldn’t belong to anyone else.

He’d never done anything to make Buffy believe he would love her, of course. His marriage proposal had been more a business arrangement. His methodical manner over the course of their honeymoon—the way his eyes would warm slightly upon meeting hers, even if that warmth never reached his face. There was always something about him which betrayed his thoughts; she could never read them, of course, but she’d always known they weren’t with her. Always.

William only exhibited passion when reminded of Drusilla. The boathouse. The visit from her cousin. Last night. God, last night. His eyes had been dead and empty, but the fire remained thoroughly undeniable.

He’d seen Drusilla, only she hadn’t been Drusilla. She’d been Buffy, and he’d known once and for all that no matter how hard he tried, he would never get his beloved back. It was why Buffy could never know him, as he’d told Wesley. There was a part of him which belonged eternally to his former wife, and he wished it to remain that way forever. He didn’t want to let anyone else inside. He didn’t want Buffy—he just wanted companionship.

He didn’t want to be alone.

It was why he’d married her. To keep from being alone. To keep the space beside him warm.

Only Buffy couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t love him like this—her love for him was ripping her apart. She was too much his to belong to anyone else, but if she stayed here only to be reminded of how very little he cared for her in turn, it would destroy her. It would utterly destroy her.

As it was, loving William would be easier if she didn’t have to see him. If her mind constructed a narrative around their tragic almost-love story through which to live vicariously through the rest of her days, rather than let Manderley erode her soul away until nothing was left. Until she was as hollow and cold as the manor itself.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

But she couldn’t leave. She couldn’t do this and she couldn’t leave. No matter what she knew, no matter what had happened last night, the thought of walking away from William devastated her all over again. It was the price of loving, she supposed. Staying would kill her and leaving would kill her. Leaving with nothing but his face immortalized in her sketchbooks and the few fond memories they’d made here together.

The fond memories which had provided her with some hope. He’d smile and whisper and squeeze her hand, and make her feel, in some small way, loved. Not a creature of passion or romance, by any means, but she’d felt he cared for her. She knew he cared for her.

Or he had until last night.

Until she’d dressed up like the woman he truly wanted. Until she’d thrown the pivotal stone at their glass house and stood frozen as the world shattered around her.

Jasper whined and rose up on all fours again, his warm eyes taking in her sobbing body with compassion which nearly destroyed her. He sniffed sympathetically and licked her face. A pathetic, humored rumble overtook the sobs wracking her throat; Buffy reeled back and ran a thankful hand through his red fur, her nose scrunching when he favored her finger with his tongue. The dog truly was the most affectionate animal she’d ever known. He offered comfort in the only way he knew because he knew she was sad. He knew she was sad, and he wanted to console her.

“Thank you, Jasper,” she whispered, pressing a kiss atop his warm head.

He whined again in response.

“I’ll be all right.”

It felt positively criminal, at that instant, to lie to a dog.

Buffy sat up completely, rubbing her sore eyes and tossing a glance to the clock on the nightstand. It was just after nine in the morning. She wondered idly if the phone in the Morning Room had rung; if Mrs. Hart was continuing her routine as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. If William was in his study or working on poetry or whatever it was he did to occupy his days when he wasn’t in London.

She wondered where he’d slept all night, but the ache in her gut whispered she already knew.

The west wing. Undoubtedly, of all the spare rooms, the one he’d shared with Drusilla would be the one he selected. The place where it looked as though the dead woman could walk through the door at any minute, pick up one of her brushes and run it through her hair. The nightgowns on the bed were still warm; Mrs. Hart saw to that. Mrs. Hart did her best to keep Drusilla alive, if only in that room.

Only Drusilla had been alive throughout all of Manderley last night. More so than ever before. More so than the whispers from the servants or the hint of fabric rustling around a corner—the ghost had manifested entirely; she had consumed every inch of the manor. Every stroke of the musician’s bows against the strings, every chord blown through a finely-tuned woodwind, every champagne toast, every consumed hors d’oeuvre—it was the party Mrs. Hart had planned. It was the party she would have wanted for Drusilla.

After all, it was Drusilla she had resurrected. The party was all for her. All of it.

Buffy forced her feet to the floor and carried herself to the vanity. Her hair was in a state and her face was lined with tear-stained makeup. She hadn’t bothered to wash before bed, too exhausted and too torn to trust her body to carry her further than necessary. This wasn’t the face the mistress of Manderley should show around the halls. And though it astonished her that she was able to care, the part of her concerned with propriety burned hot enough to force her to clean herself appropriately. She took as long as she could, though with each passing second it became more and more difficult to ignore William’s absence. No matter how difficult the confrontation might be, she knew it would only grow worse with time. She needed to speak with him—explain what had happened last night while simultaneously swallowing her pride at the secret she hadn’t meant to overhear.

A part of her hoped he’d spoken out of hurt. The rest of her was too wise, too jaded, to allow for much hope.

Perhaps it would be easier to speak with William if she spoke with Wesley first.

Her instincts, however, couldn’t be denied. When she felt suitably dressed to wander around the house, Buffy made her way instinctively for William’s office. It was empty. The parlors were empty, too, as was the Day Room where they took their meals in the morning, and the Sun Room, where she’d broken a figurine a thousand years before. The hammering in her chest foretold she was just stalling—she knew where she would find him—but she wasn’t yet ready for the final blow. For the image of him sitting alone and desolate in his empty bed-chamber. The place where his heart had been ever since he first brought Buffy to Manderley.

Desperate to avoid the west wing, Buffy called for Jasper and walked with him down the familiar pathway to the Happy Valley. The place where William had never brought Drusilla, but loved more than any other part of Manderley. The terrain here was relatively undisturbed, appearing no different than it had when she last visited with her sketchbook.

Buffy didn’t know when Jasper had ceased attempting to take the path to the bay, or if he simply sensed her mood well enough to keep to her as he had this morning. He remained steadfastly at her side and licked her hand whenever they broke stride for more than a few seconds.

“Well,” she said breathlessly, attempting to ignore the way her heart fell. William wasn’t here. Of course he wasn’t here. She’d known he wouldn’t be here. And it was foolish looking for him when she was certain she knew where he was.

But a part of her knew the soft, near-dead glow of dim hope that they could talk things through would die completely if she walked through those doors and saw him sitting in Drusilla’s room.

Jasper huffed and sniffed at a suspicious clump of grass.

“Come on.” A defeated sigh rolling off her shoulders, Buffy turned and began the slow march back to Manderley.

There was one stop to make before she swallowed what was left of her pride and investigated the west wing. The Morning Room. She would stop there and phone Wesley. If there was any grace left in the world, he would have news pertaining to William. Perhaps there was more to the conversation she’d overheard the night before. Perhaps he would explain something she hadn’t considered, or at least offer some idea as to William’s whereabouts—an idea which didn’t conclude with a journey to a dead woman’s room.

And even if Wesley had nothing, there was nothing wrong with seeking the counsel of a friend. The comfort of a friend, especially after the night she’d had.

Her mind flashed to the image of him entwined in Winifred’s arms, their mouths locked heatedly, and a rush of warmth tickled her cheeks. Though perhaps he wouldn’t want interruption this morning. Though Wesley was a gentleman, there was something about his devotion to the maid which ignored the sense of decorum. It was similarly difficult to ignore Winifred’s absence from her routine this morning, though it might have been at Mrs. Hart’s discretion. Perhaps Mrs. Hart wanted Buffy to feel completely isolated, therefore ordered the staff to avoid her today.

Then again, Mrs. Hart cared about rule and rank almost as much as she cared about destroying Buffy. Either possibility seemed logical.

Jasper took to rolling on his back in the middle of the great room. He very rarely followed Buffy around so loyally, rather took to minding his dog-business and catching up with her whenever their paths crossed or whenever she beckoned him for a walk. Today, he seemed determined to keep her in his sight, and while she didn’t pretend to understand it, she couldn’t deny she appreciated the company.

She didn’t have to wait long before Wesley picked up the line. Unlike Manderley, there wasn’t a staff through which to filter the call. It rang one and a half times before he answered.

“This is Wesley Wyndam Pryce.”

“Wesley, this is—”

“Buffy,” he said with no need of elaboration, though his tone was sharp and wary. It surprised her; she didn’t realize she had such a recognizable voice. “Are you feeling better? Anya mentioned you were taken to bed early last night.”

Hearing him voice any acknowledgment of the night before hardened a lump in her throat. It made it tangible, and with it, the reality it had cemented. Buffy distantly recalled being told she had a headache and to retire. Of course, Anya would have spread word to preserve her dignity. Anya was reliable like that.

“My head is fine,” Buffy replied; she couldn’t say she was feeling better when she knew she could crack at the slightest turn. “I was wondering…have you spoken with William today? I can’t seem to find him.”

There was a short pause. “No, Buffy,” Wesley replied, and the pity in his voice nearly killed her. “I’m afraid I have not. Did he speak with you last night?”

“No.”

“Not at all? That pompous git—”

“Wesley,” she said slowly, her voice tempered, careful to betray nothing. “It’s all right. I understand now.”

“You understand?” he repeated, his voice awash in confusion.

“It’s Drusilla. It’s always Drusilla, isn’t it?” Without warning, tears swarmed behind her eyes again. “It’s always her. She’s here. And last night…I heard you two speaking last night. You and William—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to listen, but I was in the foyer and—”

There was a mortified gasp. “Oh God…”

“I understand. It’s all right, Wesley. You’ve done everything you can but…” A tempered sigh. “He wishes to be left alone. With Drusilla. He still loves her, you see. He will always…love her. And he can’t love me because of it. Because she’s still here.”

“Oh God, Buffy. Let me come and speak with you. I—”

“No. Please don’t. I just wanted to thank you for your kindness. You’ve been extraordinarily kind to me, Wesley. But I understand now.”

“I’ll be there in a half hour. Do you hear? A half hour. I—”

Buffy slammed the receiver down before he could finish his thought, her eyes immediately lifting to the doorway. There was only one place to go now. One place she hadn’t yet explored.

The place she knew she would find him.

“Jasper,” she told the dog as he rolled onto his belly, prepared again to follow her. “Stay here.”

Jasper whimpered in protest.

“No. You must stay here.”

There were some things, after all, one must do alone.

The first time she’d crossed the threshold into Drusilla’s room, it had nearly been a mistake. Hot off the unnerving encounter with Angelus O’Malley and desperate for William to return from London, she’d found herself carried in a twist of corridors, wandering in a daze through the forbidden wing. Though she knew logically she’d broached the area with intent, her mind recalled her apprehension. Her hesitance. The very real part of her which had protested unlocking any more of Drusilla’s secrets, despite however much it was needed for her peace of mind.

The thought of William wasting away in the living museum was crippling.

Only it wasn’t William Buffy found.

It was Mrs. Hart.

The rush of relief crashing over her shoulders was so potent it nearly knocked her off her feet. William wasn’t here. He wasn’t in Drusilla’s room, and from the look of things, he hadn’t been all night. The bed was as Buffy remembered—turned down with Drusilla’s nightdress spread across the bedspread, but there was no indention in the mattress. The pillows were immaculately fluffed and hadn’t known a head in over a year. The room, more or less, appeared untouched. All except for Mrs. Hart, who stood at the vanity, hunched over, her hands grasping the marble surface.

Mrs. Hart had been here all night. Not William.

Not William.

Instead it was the woman who had sought to destroy her. Destroy her and William.

All for the love of Drusilla.

And suddenly, without warning, a dam within broke and words came spilling out. Words she barely recognized. Words she only heard after they touched the air.

“Are you satisfied?”

Mrs. Hart stiffened almost imperceptibly but did not answer.

“I understand you don’t like me,” Buffy said, doing her best to keep her voice level and tempered. “But you did it to him, too. You hurt William. You knew seeing me in that dress would hurt him as much as it hurt me.” She paused, swallowing hard. “How could you? How could you do that to him?”

Her voice fell unceremoniously and silence stretched between them. Howling wind crashed against the shutters. The air smelled of lilac and cinnamon. Buffy was only aware, however, of the ache in her chest and the heat flaming her cheeks. There was no turning around after this.

“William didn’t deserve—”

“He did,” Mrs. Hart said softly, and the air around them froze. Buffy didn’t know what she’d expected—denial, evasion, any of the above—but the words couldn’t be ignored for what they were or what they meant. “He tried to replace her. You tried to replace her.” The old woman paused, shuddering so violently it seemed she might collapse; she did not. Instead, Mrs. Hart inhaled sharply and turned around, her usually-emotionless eyes filled with the blackest hate Buffy had ever seen. “You tried to replace Drusilla.”

The words had hung between them for months, unspoken but implicit in every move. Every condescending nod of the woman’s head, every time her lips curled around Buffy’s name, every time their gazes clashed, every time they occupied the same room—every time except recently. Recently, Mrs. Hart had forced herself to be friendly, if only for she knew it would go further in securing Buffy’s fall.

“You knew you never could, though, didn’t you?” Mrs. Hart continued heartlessly, the loathing in her eyes growing deeper by the second. “From the moment you arrived here, you knew he could never love you as he loved her. Never worship you as he worshipped her. He needed someone to take up the time, and you thought you were enough for it. You thought you could make him forget her. Forget my Drusilla—you tried, didn’t you? You tried and what became of it? Can you not see the truth now?”

Words choked in Buffy’s throat. Oxygen fought to fill her lungs, only they had forgotten how to work. All she saw was Mrs. Hart—the endless black of Mrs. Hart’s eyes, Mrs. Hart’s skeletal face contorted in revulsion, Mrs. Hart’s words drowning out the wind and the creaks until there was nothing left but a silent, hysterical shriek.

“I had to show him, you see,” the old woman continued. “I had to show him you would never be enough. Not to take my Drusilla’s place. Not to walk through her house, touch her things, and pretend it all belongs to you. Nothing here belongs to you…you see that now. Of course you see it now. He showed you last night. He loves her. He wants to be alone with her again.”

“She’s gone,” Buffy gasped, her chest sore from the thunderous booms of her heart. At the moment, it didn’t seem to matter that she had been thinking, even telling Wesley the same thing less than a half hour ago; the confirmation of her worst fears rolled her into a new reckoning, and dead as the dream might be, she wasn’t ready to relinquish her hold. Not yet, and definitely not like this. “She’s gone. Does he not deserve—”

“She is not gone. Surely you feel that she is not gone?” Mrs. Hart stepped forward, her eyes widening with malice. “You feel her as I do. She lives all around us. She watches you and Mr. de Winter together, watches as you touch her things and pretend to be even a shadow of the woman she was. Do you ever wonder why Mr. de Winter chose you? You, when Drusilla was bold, beautiful, adventurous…when she was the envy of every woman and adored by every man? Mr. de Winter was enraptured with her. Your confidant, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce? He was taken with her, as well. He hated himself for loving her, but he did. There was no end to the men who loved her. Angelus O’Malley, Alexander Harris…they all fell under her charm. Why do you think you feel her even now?” Mrs. Hart positively shook. “She’s still here, of course. She’s in everything. She wants her home back…and Mr. de Winter wants it, too. He wants to be alone. He wants to live with her…he wants Manderley as it was. He doesn’t want you—he never did. Certainly you can feel it? You can feel how much he misses her? How very much she remains…in Manderley.”

The fire in Buffy’s veins chilled, her stomach churning. Nausea settled deep in her skin. She was going to be sick.

“Drusilla could temper the ocean,” Mrs. Hart continued. And then she was moving—oh God—she was moving so quickly, her icy hand closing around Buffy’s wrist. The next thing she knew, she was standing at the window. The open window. Fresh air touched her face and filled her closing throat. The scent of the sea washed away the hint of Drusilla’s perfume, but the relief which should have been imminent never came. “She should be the one standing here. Not you. You should be where she is—you should be gone.”

Bile rose in Buffy’s throat, her eyes taking in the distance from the window to the ground. The heat caressing her face trickled down her skin, spreading into her belly and thinning the air around her head to such a point where even the breeze billowing into the room couldn’t ease her.

“Do you think he would miss you?” Mrs. Hart whispered, behind her now, her hands clamped tightly around Buffy’s upper arms. Her voice was everywhere. It manifested in Drusilla’s perfume, assaulting every sense with strength no mere breeze could ever hope to defeat. “You could leave, but you won’t, will you? Not even with what happened last night. No, you will never leave him. You will stay…to torment him with the memory of what he cannot have.”

Buffy’s head spun. The ground was so far. So incredibly far away. She felt herself falling even if her feet remained firmly planted. The hard, jagged planes below would rip her body to shreds, and she felt it. She felt every tear against her skin. Every bounce. She felt it. She was on at the window, looking down, Mrs. Hart pressing her minutely closer to the threshold, and she felt it.

God, she needed to get out of there.

“Let me…let me go,” Buffy protested, her voice weak even to her ears. “Mrs. Hart…you have to…let me go…”

“Why don’t you jump?”

The suggestion, though anticipated, still startled her out of her skin. “What? No!” Strengthened now—Buffy jerked away, forcing her eyes back to the room. The walls around her twisted and curved but the daunting height presented by the window’s view no longer tormented her. “No…I most certainly will not—”

Thunder cracked through the air, stealing her words, her heat—only it wasn’t thunder. A raucous roar arose from the bay, drawing Buffy’s eyes back to the window.

“What was that?” she gasped, not expecting a reply.

There wasn’t one. There was nothing but silence—silence and then, from below, the sight of William sprinting across the terrace. Toward the path which they had walked day after day. The path to the Happy Valley.

Only his feet didn’t guide him to the Happy Valley; he took the forbidden turn and ran for the bay.

Directly into the thunder.

 

A/N: My profuse apologies for the delay. I’ve been bogged down in school papers and exams. I hope to have the next chapter written by the end of the weekend, but no promises. My betas similarly have hectic schedules, therefore I’ve been waiting for their revisions.

As a small reminder, here’s where we left off…

Previously: After being tricked by Mrs. Hart into donning the very same costume worn by Drusilla at the masque, Buffy spent the night waiting for William to join her. A confrontation with Mrs. Hart confirms the woman’s previously-unspoken hatred for Manderley’s new mistress, resulting in an attempt at coerced suicide. Buffy and Mrs. Hart are interrupted by the sound of an explosion at the bay, and the sight of William running toward the scene.

Her feet crashed along the stony terrain, wind whipping across her face. Pillars of smoke billowed over treetops as though led by an invisible paint brush. The sky was practically on fire, the roar from the inlet piercing into the quiet solitude of the de Winter property. A shotgun blast through perfect silence, shattering the world into a thousand pieces. And no matter how fast she ran, how close she became, the bay seemed a thousand miles away.

There had never been such a congregation. People had materialized along the bay, stepping out of nothingness like they’d been waiting for something to watch. Manderley had a few neighbors, but the manors were separated by miles of wilderness. Not that separation meant anything when the earth rattled with an explosion.

William was nowhere to be seen. He’d come this way—watching him tear up the forbidden path would forever be engrained in her mind. Only he wasn’t here now. How could he have disappeared so quickly?

“Mrs. de Winter?”

Buffy blinked wearily and turned to her left. A young man she didn’t recognize was hurrying toward her, one hand steadying his hat on his head so the wind didn’t tear it away. A familiar pang of awkward guilt struck her heart when he met her eyes. Before she married William, she’d never found herself in the situation where strangers knew her name. She was so accustomed to being overlooked—there was no way, even if she lived the rest of her life as a lady of means, that she would ever become accustomed to this feeling.

“Hello,” she said inelegantly. “Have you seen my husband?”

The man nodded. “One of the sailors banged up his head pretty bad. Mr. de Winter and Mr. Wyndam-Pryce took him to town.”

Buffy inhaled sharply. “Wesley?” she repeated. “Wesley was here?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’d just arrived when it happened.” The man tossed a glance to the bay, and as though staring at an abstract painting, forms suddenly tugged together and molded into logical shapes. There was a fishing boat cast against the crystal water, one, maybe two miles from the shoreline. Smoke rose from its lower vessels, veiling over the sun but doing little to shield her eyes from the blinding white beach.

“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce came down here immediately,” the man continued. “He and Mr. de Winter should return later this afternoon.”

“What happened?” Buffy asked, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene.

“We’re not certain yet. The boat’s just stuck for the moment. Divers are going down to see what she ran into.” There was a pause. “Mrs. de Winter, this might be a while. If you’d like, I could have someone escort you back to the house.”

Buffy didn’t reply immediately. She stared fixedly at the boat. Manderley was a thousand miles away. Mrs. Hart couldn’t reach her here. The empty foyer stained with the footprints of a sea of faceless guests wouldn’t haunt her as long as she remained at the bay.

“Mrs. de Winter—”

“Yes. I mean, no. No, thank you.”

The man looked puzzled but ultimately left her to her own devices. Buffy wandered the pearly stretch of shore for what felt like hours, transfixed on the sight and struggle as men clamored to and from the boat in narrow canoes. The imposed seclusion of the bay had exploded, rendering it from an illicit place of which no one was supposed to speak into a breeding ground of chaos. This place where William’s wife had died—where his life had drained, where he’d stepped from the happy existence of a man in love into the hollowed shell with whom she’d been living. For as many months, the bay had served as a living tomb for Drusilla. An extension of the family crypt where her body rested and the faultless museum which had once been her bedroom. Here was death, a sharp contrast to the life Mrs. Hart tried desperately to keep thriving within the walls of the manor itself.

What had William thought when he heard the explosion? After last night—after what they’d been through: the silent torture of the party, the long agony of his failure to come to bed, the desperate search across the grounds—nothing seemed real anymore. Nothing. Not this morning. Not the walk to the Happy Valley. Not the encounter with Mrs. Hart. Had she really been in Drusilla’s bedroom less than an hour ago, her weary eyes absorbing the dizzying heights of a fifty-foot drop? Vertigo overwhelmed her senses.

The bay was no longer closed, no longer private. And William was gone. Not only from her bed; he’d left the grounds. He was with Wesley; would Wesley betray their phone call? Would he tell William everything Buffy couldn’t? How would she react if he did? Did she even want that? Was it better to suffer quietly or get everything in the open? God, she didn’t know anymore.

Buffy lost track of how long she lingered at the bay. Eventually, her exhausted body found its way to a smooth slab of rock protruding from the snowy sand. She sat, lost between worlds. Divided by realities. Watching the crowd of strangers and assorted divers went a long way in distracting her long-suffering mind from the harsher truth surrounding her. She wasn’t safe, of course. Nowhere on the grounds was safe from scrutiny. Every few minutes, her mind would inevitably crawl back to the life waiting for her within Manderley’s walls.

She doesn’t know me.

A long shudder claimed her body. Those words would never stop haunting her. Though less than a day had passed since they broke into her sanctuary, she couldn’t imagine—sitting here, watching the fishing boat sway against the tide—she would ever emerge from the fog into which she’d so willingly wandered.

Do you think he would miss you? Mrs. Hart had whispered, pressing her closer to the ledge. She’d wanted Buffy gone—she’d wanted her to feel the weight of her isolation. For all her cruelty, Mrs. Hart’s motives were refreshingly unambiguous. Now, at least. Now in the harsh light of a new day. Buffy felt older now. So much older than she had a short twenty-four hours ago.

So much older.

But she had an answer for Mrs. Hart. Despite the heartache, despite her concerns, despite everything which had occurred, a part of Buffy knew William would miss her. The idea of her, at least. He might now realize she wasn’t what he wanted and never could be—he might know finally that Drusilla would never again walk down the stairs or dance or make love with him—but he was lonely, and he needed companionship.

She knew he would miss her because he hadn’t stayed in Drusilla’s room last night. The pinnacle of her worst fears never saw fruition. He hadn’t stayed in Drusilla’s room.

He was lonely. He needed someone. He’d never love again, but he needed someone.

Perhaps he’d married Buffy because he’d known she was in love with him. Their breakfast at Monte Carlo had certainly alluded as much. He’d sat across from her, discussing the clock and offering her toast and speaking vainly as though all was right and natural. He’d been the one to mention her love for him before she even knew how to form the words. He’d known she was in love with him, therefore he knew she wouldn’t say no.

He cared for her just fine. As someone might care for a favored pet.

Buffy’s head dipped when she realized her eyes had filled with tears again. The wisps of black smoke clouding the sky seemed to her as poison seeping into a glass filled with clear water. The sun’s heat was suddenly intolerable. She couldn’t stay here anymore.

No one noticed when she slipped to her feet and took the turn to walk back to the manor. Not the crew, not the crowd, and not the nameless young man whom had been so keen to help her a short while ago. Buffy marched slowly up the barren path, her arms folded under her breasts, her heart seemingly determined to break free from her chest. The walk back seemed to stretch lifetimes, but eventually she made it to the familiar bend in the pathway where her feet would normally divert to the Happy Valley. It felt wrong viewing Manderley from this angle. While it was hardly the first time she’d ever braved a journey to the bay, the walk home nearly always coincided with a rush of guilt and abnormality. As though God and everyone knew she’d been where she was not welcome.

The dress she’d worn last night had ripped William apart. How would he react now? Now that there was an accident involving a boat in the very place where Drusilla had sailed away, never to be seen alive again? Would he even remember he had a living wife waiting for him at home?

Her mind drifted again to Wesley, piecing together elaborate stories as to what he would divulge and how William would react.

How William would feel if he knew she knew.

Buffy wandered through the entrance, lost in another world. The hall looked as it always did: large, beautiful, and achingly empty. The portrait which had inspired the disastrous evening had been removed. No lingering remnants of the night’s party remained. There were no crumbs, no spills, no empty glasses scattered across the furniture.

There was nothing. The house was full of ghosts and whispers, but nothing else.

Inhaling slowly, she turned to the left and drifted over the marble floor, dry, still air fanning her sweat-laced skin. Her feet carried her without direction to the parlor, shadows of dancing puppets dragging her eyes across the open room. The entire masque had been a play, and the actors had done their part to make sure the scene unfolded as Mrs. Hart had scripted.

Just as Mrs. Hart had scripted.

Buffy exhaled slowly and sank into the settee. The rustle of her linen slacks might as well have been a glass shattering for as silent as the room stood. She wondered idly if Mrs. Hart remained in Drusilla’s living sanctuary. If she had watched William tear toward the place where Drusilla had disappeared. If she knew anything of what happened at the bay.

Inevitably, however, Buffy’s thoughts returned to William. What he was thinking. God, after the night they’d had, the commotion at the bay could only serve as the proverbial pinch of salt. Would he even remember Buffy existed when he arrived home? Would he want to speak with her at all? The world around her had tumbled completely out of order, out of the quiet control on which she’d come to rely.

The silence around her had an intoxicating effect; within minutes, she found herself nodding off. Shadows of William, masked guests, haunted paintings danced behind her tired eyes. Her ears rang with the crash of waves, her nostrils filled with the scent of the sea. The black smoke curling from the fishing boat assaulted her senses. She was everywhere at once. At the top of the stairs in a white dress. At William’s side in the fabric he’d peeled off her body on their honeymoon. Lying in bed, waiting for him to join her. Standing at the bay, sand filling into her shoes, the sun bouncing off the water, watching as divers disappeared and surfaced again and again.

Waiting. Perpetually waiting for William.

“Mrs. de Winter?”

Buffy jerked upright. Giles stood in the doorway.

He nodded promptly, always the epitome of decorum. “Colonel Riley Finn,” he announced, turning to leave just as the words escaped his lips.

“Colonel Riley Finn?” she repeated, rising shakily to her feet. In a blink, a man she’d never before seen had pushed through the double-doors in Giles’s place. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the face of an infant. When he saw she was alone, the hat on his head was immediately rendered to his hand and pressed against his chest.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said courteously. “I’m here to see Mr. de Winter.”

Buffy swallowed hard. “I’m afraid Mr. de Winter is away from home at the moment,” she replied, wondering idly why Giles had failed to relate this. Then again, there was every chance Giles hadn’t known William had left the premises at all. Everything since last night had been so scattered and confused, as had been William’s departure to town. There was nothing in her universe right now which made any sense. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Finn shifted awkwardly, his eyes darting to the floor. “All due respect, ma’am, this is something I think I should discuss with your husband.”

There was something definitive in his tone Buffy didn’t like. And without warning, the thundering in her chest increased tenfold. The last thing William needed at present was another blow, no matter the form in which it came. After last night, what little hope for them remained was kept only alive by the promise of no more disasters. A promise dangerously close to breaking from the guilty flush of the Colonel’s cheeks. Whatever he was here to relate would do nothing but drive the wedge between her and William even further, and this was something she couldn’t allow. Not now. Not until she had the chance to explain herself to him. Not until she looked him in the eye and knew he didn’t blame her for what had happened, even if the realities it had produced couldn’t be ignored.

She couldn’t let it rain where it had already flooded. Not if she had the means by which to stop it.

“Colonel,” Buffy said softly. “My husband has had a very trying night…and this mess at the bay—”

“It’s why I’m here, ma’am. We’ve found something.”

A beat. Buffy swallowed hard, attempting and failing to digest the information. Her thoughts were entirely with William. “All right,” she replied. “Well, as I said, my husband is away from home right now, so whatever you need to say will have to be conveyed through me. I—”

Resolution hardened Finn’s face. He at last looked up again and shook his head. “Mr. de Winter needs to hear this from me. I’m sorry.”

“Needs to hear what?”

“What we found.”

The inclination in his voice was significant enough that the words penetrated the veneer surrounding William and stuck. Buffy exhaled deeply, locked her eyes on his, doing her best to ignore the sudden rush of heat attacking her face. “What…what did you find?”

“I shouldn’t—”

“He will tell me anyway.” It was a wild lie—a supposition based on hope—but she knew without a doubt she needed to hear what Finn had to say before William, and for reasons greater than their troubled marriage. This went beyond the party, beyond what Mrs. Hart had done with a mind to sabotage her, beyond everything in her grasp. This was something which could not only destroy Buffy, but William as well. And though she didn’t know how she knew it, there was no doubt in her mind. None at all. Everything had been shoved aside save for a rash need to protect the man she loved.

She didn’t know how to protect him from words, but at least she would have an idea of what she faced if Colonel Finn told her first.

Hesitance splattered Finn’s face. “Mrs. de Winter—”

“Just tell me what you found. William—”

“It was the boat.”

A heady pause. “The boat?”

“The boat Mrs. de Winter—your husband’s first wife—the one she was sailing the night she disappeared.” The corners of Finn’s mouth drew down almost apologetically, as though he sensed how Drusilla had plagued her these many months. “It was what caused the fishing boat to crash.”

The roar of the sea against the shoreline exploded across distance and glass, filling Buffy’s ears as cold permeated every nerve in her trembling body. She felt choked without reason, suddenly floored with the stench of Drusilla’s perfume. As though every hinted manifestation of the woman’s ghost took shape, rising from the ashes of her memory scattered across every corner of the great estate. The floorboards positively hummed, reassured with the presence of their old mistress. Risen from the watery depths of her clandestine tomb. No matter she was buried in the family cemetery, and had been ever since William identified her. This went beyond the physical—this was the resurrection of the thing which had killed her.

Not even a day since William caught a glimpse of his beloved late wife at the top of the stairs.

If he knew what had been uncovered, it would be worse than anything Buffy had ever dreamt up. The magnitude of the fall was inconceivable. Like trying to imagine eternity—a concept beyond grasp, beyond understanding, beyond any sort of conventional wisdom.

“Please,” Buffy gasped, barely aware she was speaking at all. “Please don’t tell him this now. Please. She’s gone, isn’t she? Drusilla’s gone. We knew the boat was lost…what good can come from bringing it up now? I’ll…we can repay the damage done to the fishing boat. Anything. Just please don’t do this to him now.”

The sympathy on Finn’s face was unbearable. He held up a hand. “Mrs. de Winter—”

“This doesn’t change anything,” she insisted erratically. “Anything. Just please don’t make him go through this again. Hasn’t he been through enough? Hasn’t—”

“Were it only a matter of the boat, I would gladly step out of here and never bother you again.” There was a significant pause. “But there’s more to what I told you…and we have to follow every lead from here on out to its logical conclusion.”

Buffy shook her head, unwinding. “I don’t understand.”

The Colonel studied her for a long, grueling moment, his mouth forming a perfect line. “We have reason to believe now that Mrs. de Winter—that is, the late Mrs. de Winter—wasn’t alone in the boat when it capsized.”

The words made no sense to her. She heard them, digested them, intellectually comprehended them, but found herself irrevocably lost in translation. “Not alone?” she repeated, doing her best to ignore her buzzing skin and her shaking hands. “I…I don’t…”

“This is why I need to speak with your husband,” Finn continued apologetically. “There was no report of anyone sailing with Mrs. de Winter that night—”

“Well, that’s because there wasn’t,” Buffy replied. “I don’t understand—”

“Mrs. de Winter…there’s a body.”

The air fell absolutely still. She felt suspended between realities. “A body?”

Finn nodded. “In the main compartment of Mrs. de Winter’s boat. We found a body.”

Buffy’s eyes fixed on a miniscule imperfection on the wall as sound dulled and shapes fell to a place she could not follow. There was no thought. No speech. No sound. There was nothing but absolute knowledge, and the ceaseless despair it brought in its wake. The endless awareness it was over. It was over. It was completely over. The stormy terrain of William’s troubled eyes would dominate him without end. The small steps they’d taken would be completely conquered by devastated, restless silence. Drusilla was resurrected—her boat was no longer submerged and forgotten, no longer an abstract thing of theoretical existence, as it had lived in Buffy’s mind these many months. This was more than seeing Drusilla in the flesh. This was utter loss. This was complete ruination.

“Someone was sailing with her,” Buffy heard herself say. Her legs crashed against the settee without her permission. There wasn’t room enough to breathe.

“Yes, ma’am,” Finn said softly. “This is why I need to talk with your husband. The boat was found on his property, which presents a problem. Moreover, we didn’t know of anyone else sailing with her that night. We need to—”

There was a sudden slam from the main hall. Buffy’s head jerked up.

And then she heard it. The soft baritone of his voice. The cooling lumber with which she’d fallen in love.

“Buffy?” he called softly, searchingly. “Are you down here?”

Her heart leapt into her throat.

William was home.

 

Author’s Note: I’m so nervous about this. *hides*

She didn’t know when the draperies had changed. The current texture was coarse, the shade a deep charcoal, and yards of fabric pooled at the ground. She was certain the drapes hadn’t always been this color. As though sensing the shift, the subtle but significant change in the tide, the house had altered its mood. Manderley sensed the impending storm, and despite the resurrection of its mistress, chose to mirror the lifeless shade of William’s eyes.

“Mr. de Winter,” Colonel Finn said diplomatically, offering his hand. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” William replied, his eyes flickering to Buffy, heavy with concern but likewise well-guarded. Everything about him was guarded. “Is everything all right?”

“Colonel Finn,” she implored desperately. Her tone only furthered the concern in her husband’s eyes. “Please, I—”

“What is it?” William demanded. “What’s happened?”

Buffy sank deeper into the settee, thoroughly vulnerable and more than a little useless. The voices around her stretched into long, incoherent notes which resembled nothing of actual words. She didn’t need to listen—hearing it a second time would amount to little more than rubbing salt into an already achingly open wound. She watched color fade from her husband’s face. His jaw hardened, his head nodding as though detached from his body. Every few seconds his lips would part, and he would offer a non-committal, monosyllabic retort. A dull hum filled Buffy’s ears, drying her throat and numbing her skin and rendering her nothing more than a shadow.

The voices which surfaced made sense but she could barely hear them. She felt miles away.

“I see,” William murmured. “Yes, of course…”

“Obviously, I don’t want to trouble you more on this difficult subject than is necessary,” Finn said sympathetically. “But you understand the problems…” He nodded to Buffy. “Your wife and I think there must have been someone else in the boat with Mrs. de Winter.”

A long, unbearable pause. William’s face didn’t change, nor did his inflection. He merely cleared his throat and nodded. “I see.”

“We don’t know who—”

“Yes, that would be problematic.”

“And I know the last thing you want is more attention on this…matter. The whole island knows that.”

William met Buffy’s eyes and held. There was nothing behind them.

“Yes, Colonel, you’re correct…but obviously our desires don’t coincide with the nature of things.” He nodded again. “If you leave your number, I’ll be sure to give you a ring in the morning. As it is, I believe I need to discuss a few things with my wife. This changes…quite a bit.”

“I can imagine,” Finn said, and if he weren’t so damned empathetic, Buffy would have shoved him through the bay window. He didn’t know what he’d done. What he’d just cost her. He didn’t know how the world had suddenly changed.

And she couldn’t stop it. The last shoe had finally dropped. There was no ray of hope, no way of talking herself into something which truly no longer existed. Colonel Finn had extinguished the last bit of light she’d reserved for herself. Buffy sat on the settee and watched as William slipped away from her completely, unable to do anything to stop it. Everything around her blurred again, disconnected, static, leaving her only to the terrible cadence of her thundering heart. Along the bay, the waves were crashing and Drusilla’s boat was rocking and there was a body in the main cabin. A body which oughtn’t be there but was.

A body which had brought Drusilla herself back to life. No longer a ghost; the woman was truly alive again.

Sound clarified after what felt like hours. Buffy watched William shake Finn’s hand again and show him to the door. Then they were alone. A few agonizingly long minutes passed, but William returned to her. He stood in the doorway, not looking at her, his hands in his pockets. How long they remained like that, she didn’t know. Only that it seemed hours before he closed off the parlor from unwanted visitors.

It took every nerve in her body to command herself to her feet. William met her eyes but only fleetingly, turning instead to the window. There he fixed his gaze on something distant and held. She watched the bob of his Adam’s-apple. She listened to the steady course of his breaths. She stood and waited, but he didn’t say anything.

He wanted to say something. He wouldn’t still be with her if he didn’t want to say something.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy heard herself blurt. Then she was moving—moving swiftly across the room until she was against him. Her arms encircled his waist and her cheek found his chest, and before she could help herself, the tears she’d cried all night tore through the dam she’d built. Everything came tumbling down. “I’m so sorry, William. Please forgive me. Please.”

It was immediate. She’d never felt an embrace like this. His arms were suddenly around her, hugging her to him with foreign intensity. It was unlike anything. Apart from their lovemaking, apart from the captured moments of stolen tenderness—apart from everything. It was so unexpected she didn’t know what to do with it, save hold him tighter and hope he didn’t let go.

William’s lips brushed her brow. “What are you sorry for, sweetheart?”

“The dress. I didn’t mean to…I know it was foolish. I should have known. I should have—”

“Oh, Buffy…”

She blinked, startled beyond reproach. His tone was not one of an angry widower. There was nothing but raw sincerity, and it rattled her to the bone. “What?”

“You did nothing wrong last night,” he murmured, kissing her temple as his fingers played with the wisps of hair at the base of her neck. “I lost my head. My behavior was unforgivable.”

“But the dress—”

“Was only a dress.”

“It was the dress she—” Buffy’s breath drew up short, her heart leaping into her throat. Never before had she referenced Drusilla directly. With intent. But then, never before had they been in such a situation—in a place where his dead wife was more than the ghost in the room. She was the room itself. And no matter how much it terrified her, there was no ignoring Drusilla anymore. “It was the dress she wore.”

To her astonishment, William offered a dry chuckle. “Not the same one, I’d hope,” he replied. “That’d be bloody awkward.”

“No. Mrs. Hart—”

“So it was Mrs. Hart.” A long sigh tore across his shoulders. “I should have seen something like this coming. The woman was devoted to her…” William paused long enough to slowly untangle himself from her clinging arms. “It doesn’t matter now,” he continued, turning again to the window. “It’s over.”

Cold froze Buffy’s insides. “What’s over?”

“Everything, darling. You heard what Colonel Finn said. It’s over now.”

“Because she was sailing with someone else?” Buffy demanded, astonished at the sudden shrill in her voice but unable to stop it. “It was…I know it comes as a shock, but—”

William shook his head indiscernibly. “That’s not it.”

A long sigh depressed her heart. And before she could help herself, the voice of her greatest insecurity tore down the walls of her psyche and stepped forward with uncharacteristic audacity. “I’ll be better,” she promised softly. “I can do better.”

He whirled around, frowning. “What?”

“I’ll be more…I don’t know. I didn’t know how to…when you married me, I didn’t know how to behave. How to be the best…the best wife…for you.”

The dead look on his face made her feel like an over-rubbed scar. “What are you talking about?”

“I know I can’t ever be her. I—”

“You think I want that?”

It wasn’t the fact the words were truly between them, carried by air and existing somewhere other than the recesses of her mind; it was the endless astonishment on his face. As though he had never been plagued with such thoughts. As though he’d never thought her any less than what she was, or never wanted her to be anything more. And perhaps it was the truth. She’d harbored the delusion William wanted her to embody Drusilla, a delusion she suspected the night before had destroyed when he realized she never could be.

Still, there was nothing to support the contrary. Every whispered breath between them was spelled out by distance. William never met her eyes when they made love. Their nights were often occupied with his desperate pleas to his dead wife. He’d turned away from her last night when he’d seen her. He’d told Wesley that she didn’t know him, and never could. He never went to the bay—he’d been so angry with her when she dared venture that way with Jasper, telling her she wouldn’t dare if she had his memories. He bought her dresses and jewels and acted thoroughly bewildered when she couldn’t step with ease into the role into which she’d married.

“I don’t…I don’t know,” Buffy whispered, the air stinging her eyes. “Didn’t you?”

It was a slow transformation. The way his face fell pale, his gaze filling with the most potent sorrow she’d ever seen. The veils between them fell. Standing in the deceitful quiet of the parlor, the space between them occupied with heavy breaths and thundering hearts, it seemed they understood each other at long last.

“Oh God,” William murmured, horrified. “Oh God…”

“It doesn’t matter,” she assured him hurriedly, her feet carrying her to his side before she could stop herself. “None of it matters. We’ll start over. We can still start over.”

He shook his head, though for the dismayed look on his face, she didn’t know if it was in reaction to her offer or if he was still in shock over her revelation. “No,” he whispered. There wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t haunted. “No, my love. It’s too late.”

The bottom of her stomach dropped. “No,” she protested urgently. It suddenly didn’t matter this was the moment she’d predicted since last night. Since the incident at the bay and the visit from Colonel Finn had fortified every negative fear her mind had whispered to her lovesick heart. Ignoring everything, because the alternative was unbearable. “No, it can’t be too late. It can’t be. I know this is…I can’t imagine how horrible this must be for you. But William, please. It was just someone sailing with her. It was—”

He sighed, his head dropping. “Buffy…”

“I love you,” she cried, tears stinging her eyes. “I love you so much. I know I haven’t—”

William whirled around, and the explosion of life she saw flash across his face nearly knocked her off her feet. “Say it again,” he said softly, his voice weighed with something heavy—something she couldn’t identify, something she barely noticed for her own anxiety. “Say it again, Buffy.”

“I love you.”

It was wondrous—a page from a storybook. For a blindingly perfect moment, she thought he would finally say it back. The softness of his eyes and the hope in his voice begged expansion, but as he approached the definitive line, the fire died and he backed away again. And without warning, the moment passed. “It might have been enough once,” he said, casting his gaze downward. “I thought it would be. You, me…I was so foolish for coming back here. Our one chance of happiness is gone forever.”

Buffy shook her head, hot rivers scalding her cheeks. “William, please. Please.”

“Drusilla has won.”

The words served as the proverbial slap. “What?”

“She’s won. I left to forget her. To forget…God, to forget everything that happened. I never knew I’d meet you. Never dreamed of marrying again. Never thought I could come back to Manderley…not after…” William cleared his throat and turned to the window again, crossing his arms elegantly behind his back, but for the first time she saw how he trembled. “But then I saw you. You were wearing that white dress. Do you remember?”

She remembered screaming at him, terrified she was about to witness a man’s death. Her dress was insignificant. She’d just needed to save him.

“You looked so innocent,” William mused thoughtfully. “You were, of course. Innocent. So much more than even I knew. And you drew me in. God, you drew me in so deeply. But I couldn’t…you couldn’t…”

When his voice faded to silence, Buffy knew he would not speak again. His body was too tight with tension, holding with it the strings keeping her heart together. How he could ever have been enchanted with her was a mystery. It was something she’d never seen—something he’d certainly never revealed. The thought alone was enough to blow her mind but she couldn’t stop. No matter what he said about the past, the fact remained he thought it was over. Whatever it was between them had ended. Their marriage. The life they lived at Manderley. There was something he refused to tell her—something the rest of him was practically screaming.

And again, she thought of his words the night before. The words which would undoubtedly haunt her to the grave.

She doesn’t know me.

“Drusilla has won,” he said again. “I was foolish to think I could beat her. Even in death, she always had the upper-hand.”

“I don’t understand,” Buffy whispered, because it was the truth. “It was someone sailing with her, William. It was only that. Someone was sailing with her that night.”

There was a short, nearly indiscernible shake of his head. “No.”

“But—”

“It’s her. It’s Drusilla.”

It was an odd sensation, feeling one’s heart stop. Tiny prickles danced up and down her arms, her insides flushing cold and her throat threatening to choke on air. What he said was impossible—absolutely impossible. Drusilla was buried in the family plot. William had seen her, identified her. There had been a funeral. This wasn’t a flight of fancy; it was knowledge. It was something to which the whole country could attest.

Shock, Buffy told herself, swallowing hard and forcing a brave step forward. It’s the shock.

Perhaps it was easier for him to imagine Drusilla under water than the less pleasant alternative; the one wherein she was out sailing with a lover.

Another step. She was closing in on him. If she could just touch him, reassure him with a caress, she was certain she could talk him off this ledge as well. He might not want to face the truth of his former marriage, but he’d given Buffy enough ammunition to resurrect her fallen confidence. He’d seen something in her that day on the bluff. Something in her open, vulnerable face and her white dress. If he just looked at her now it wouldn’t seem so horribly bad. Nothing would. She could save him from this. For the sake of their marriage—for his sake—she had no option. “William,” she said softly. “I know it’s…hard to imagine her with someone else down there, but—”

Shivers danced across her skin at the harshness of his laugh. “Oh, yes,” he drawled. “Bloody unfathomable.”

“Talk to me.”

“It’s over. There’s nothing to talk about.” He stared fixedly out the window. “I’m so sorry. I wish I…but she’s won. Drusilla has won.”

“Stop saying that!” Buffy cried, tossing caution aside and grasping his wrist. In a blink, she was trapped beneath the power of his azure eyes. She refused to blink; refused to back down. Not when she had something so vital for which to fight. “She was sailing with someone. Colonel Finn said so. She was—”

“Buffy, it’s no good. It’s her. She’s back. She’s in the boat.” William took her hands in his, tossing a fleeting glance to the door behind her as though it would open on his command.

“It’s impossible! She—”

“You have no idea how I wish it was.”

And then there was fire. Sparks ignited in her belly and began to spread. “So you don’t wish I was her?” she asked before she could stop herself, wincing at the horror which engulfed his face. But there was no stopping—the gate was open. She couldn’t help herself if she tried. “You don’t wish she was here and I wasn’t?”

“No. No. God no. Oh Buffy—”

She heard the words but they made no sense. Not with everything she’d seen. Everything through which she’d been. Not after seeing his eyes last night. “But you wanted her,” she gasped. “You wanted Drusilla. You wanted her back and—”

“Buffy, stop—”

“—you could never love me like you loved her.”

Shock replaced horror. William released her at once and staggered back as though struck with a bullet. “Loved her?” he replied. The words might as well have been toxic for how he spat them. “Loved Drusilla? I hated her. I hated every wretched thing about her. She was a menace. A bloody viper. She never—” He broke away, shaking his head, the whole of him trembling. “I never loved Drusilla. Never. She was pure poison. She killed everything she touched. Everything she…I never thought I was capable of hatred before I met her.” William paused before meeting her eyes again. “And you say you love me. You tell me you love me. I asked you before we married if you loved me. But you can’t, sweetheart. You can’t love me. You don’t know…” He twisted on his heel and pointed at the window. Pointed to the bay. “You want to know how I know Dru’s in that boat? Because I bloody put her there. I shot her with a double-barrel shotgun, put her in the boat, and made damned sure she’d never…but she’s won. Do you understand? She’s won. I killed her. I killed Drusilla, and she still won. She always wins.”

William’s head snapped back to Buffy. She was motionless, frozen with shock, unable to do anything but stare.

“I killed Drusilla,” he said again. “And now you know. The whole world will know. She’s not in the cemetery. She never has been. She never even left Manderley. Never. She’s been here always. Always.”

Every inch of her had frozen. She existed between realities.

And William, with eyes like a thunderstorm, was all around her. He gripped her arms and pulled her to his chest, threatening to consume her, devour her, and daring her to fear him in turn. “So look at me, Buffy,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a plea. For the first time, the tears clouding her vision weren’t her own. “Look at me and tell me it doesn’t matter. Now that you know what I…what I am. Look at me and tell me you can love me now.”

The flash of his eyes overtook her like a tidal wave, and before she could do so much as gasp his name, her cheeks were between his hands and his lips had crashed upon hers. And then the floor fell away and the walls melted, and there was nothing but them. William’s mouth moved against hers, hungry, demanding; his tongue prying her lips apart to taste every facet of her mouth. And Buffy was so stunned she could do little more than stumble back, her racing mind stuck on repeat. She seized his forearms and secured her balance, gasping when her rear collided with the buffet table along the wall. And William kept kissing her. Pouring every inch of himself into the union of their lips. When he pulled away, it was to sigh her name. When physics reminded him they needed to breathe, he would pant for air while peppering her face with sweet kisses. His hands dropped to her waist and hoisted her onto the table, anchoring himself between her legs. It was the most passionate embrace she’d ever known—the sort of thing she’d only dreamed of touching with William. With anyone. And yet, her mind was stuck. Far away. She could only think of what he’d just confessed.

The words that changed everything.

Loved Drusilla? I hated her. I hated every wretched thing about her.

Strange how nearly a year of apprehension could lift in a matter of seconds. Buffy felt like crying and cackling at the same time. The tears she’d battled all day were suddenly fresh once more, but there was no sadness. There was nothing but the accompanying bubble of laughter lodged in her throat and the tingles spreading through her skin.

William had never loved Drusilla. Never.

As though sensing the thought, his lips broke away just long enough for her to register the absence of his warmth. “Buffy,” he murmured, raising a hand to her face. “Look at me.”

She didn’t realize her eyes had fallen closed. The world fell away again the second their gazes clashed.

William smiled gently and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I love you. God help me, I love you so much.”

And then he was kissing her again. Hard. Desperate. Passionate. Demanding. He nipped at her lips, sucking her tongue between his teeth, devouring her like a man starved. It was the most wonderful moment of her life and all she could do was sit in his arms and try to keep from bawling at what he’d confessed. At how everything had changed.

William loves me. He never loved Drusilla. He loves me.

It ended as quickly as it’d begun. His mouth broke from hers with a harsh pant, his brow rubbing intimately against hers as he tried to keep from trembling. But before she could gather her wits and draw him into her again, he’d rumbled a long, resigned sigh and moved away, leaving her cold.

“It is too late, isn’t it?” he said, his eyes focused on the floor. It took a few seconds before her mind caught up with the conversation—the thing to which he’d confessed before kissing her into new life. The sin he was convinced would drive her away. “I knew it. I knew…once you knew…”

Buffy’s eyes shot wide. “Oh no. William—”

“I don’t blame you, darling. I—”

“No,” she protested, sliding off the buffet and storming forward, commanded with confidence she’d never before tasted. The nerves wracking her body were empowering rather than incapacitating. There was no losing William now—not if she fought. Not if she revealed everything. “No, I was just…you love me?”

The break of passion in his eyes served as all the answer she needed. A mixture of regret and awe which broke her for the knowledge of the reason behind it. “Oh Buffy,” he sighed, “how can I help but loving you? You’re so…so bloody pure. So genuine. You’re light personified. Just looking at you blinds me. And the fact you even have to ask…I’ve tried so hard to love you while being completely aware that there’s nothing about you I deserve. You’re everything I’m not. Everything. Having you here alone is…it’s so wonderful, but you’re so…after what I’ve done…what I…I’m beneath you. I’m so beneath you…and I’ve been so focused on that I haven’t told you how much you mean to me.” A heartbreaking pause. “You really didn’t know I loved you?”

Buffy inhaled sharply and glanced away. The desperate sincerity in his voice made her feel foolish for her assumptions, but the fears which had harvested her insides were no less authentic now that she knew the truth. As it was, she wasn’t forced to say the words. She wasn’t forced to confess. Silence did all the talking. “I thought you loved her,” she said again, small, her voice hoarse.

William shook his head heavily. “Never. Never, Buffy. I’ve always been yours. Always. Since the day you looked at me.” A heavy break. “I just don’t…I don’t deserve you.”

She was living in a parallel life, walking in a world that looked and felt like hers, but had taken such a radical turn the two couldn’t be mistaken. “How can you say you don’t deserve me? I’m not something to be deserved. I was only a paid companion before—”

“You think that matters to me?” he replied raucously. “I saw you were light and the rest didn’t matter. I wanted you. Then when we spoke…when I knew what sort of person you were…I started loving you and it’s just gotten stronger.” A hard shudder commanded his body. “But I’m…Dru ruined me. Don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? I said she was poison, and bloody hell, she was. She spread through Manderley—through me—and infected everything she touched. She’s gone now, but the darkness she left behind…” His voice lapsed to silence, his crystal eyes large and haunted. “It takes darkness to end darkness, and there’s nothing darker than ending a human life. It’s poisoned me. Made me so…what kind of man am I…”

Buffy instinctively reached for his face, her fingers dancing across his cheek. “You’re a very good man.”

He shook his head. “I don’t deserve you. I never did.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Buffy—”

“You think you can scare me away with talk of darkness? She’s gone. Even if she…whatever she did is over now.” A long breath rolled off her shoulders and she took one of his hands in hers, placing it atop her thundering heart. “I love you.”

The crack of emotion in his eyes was crushing. “Buffy—”

“I do. I love you. And if I’m light—”

“You are. God, you are.”

“Then let me take the darkness away.”

It was near impossible for someone so familiar with detachment to readily adapt to all-encompassing awe. To stand where Buffy stood now. The storm to which she’d grown accustomed had taken a drastic turn, and for a frighteningly long moment she worried he might collapse entirely. It was the most profound shift she’d ever known—the planes governing their existence had reallocated, and she saw at last how much he needed her. She felt it in his throaty breaths as his fingers gently caressed her skin. In a wondrous blink of realization, she saw herself through his eyes and felt cherished for the first time in her life.

She thought he might speak. He did not. Long seconds fell to minutes, filled with nothing but the hard echoes of their breaths. Finally, William inhaled and turned away, focusing again on the bay window. It wasn’t rejection, though when she became schooled enough to identify the difference was beyond her. All she knew was William needed her as much as she needed him, and when he turned from her, it wasn’t to run away. It was out of shame.

“Manderley has been in my family for generations,” he said at last, his voice soft. “When I was younger, it was impressed upon me the importance of property, and the wealth which would one day be mine. Manderley was so much more than a home…it was representative of everything good in my family. The knowledge I would one day be the head of the house, as my father was, was daunting…something I felt I should earn, despite the fact it would be mine no matter what.” William sighed and turned, capturing her eyes again. “It was everything to me. The happiness of my childhood, the namesake of my father…I wanted to make it as happy a place as I could when I inherited it—the way I’d known it growing up. Love was…well, I’m a poet.” A harsh laugh rumbled through his throat. “I’ve always wanted love, though I knew love was more a luxury than a necessity in the world I lived in. But I was determined. I wanted love. I had to have love in my life.”

The warmth in her heart was overbearing. She wanted to speak, but had no words, thus merely extended her hand. It was a long beat before William moved forward, insecurity and longing heavy behind his eyes. The life between them sparked and grew when he took her hand; she felt every tremor that seized his body as she led him to the settee.

“It’s okay,” she said belatedly, though only because she didn’t know what else to say. She placed his hand in her lap as they sat, an unspoken anchor of her support. Intellectually, she understood nothing was okay. Outside the walls awaited harbormasters and boats and dead bodies. Outside awaited a sea of trouble, but she didn’t want William focused on what was coming. Not now. Now, she needed them alone in the world. She needed him to believe no one could touch him so long as she held his hand.

When William nodded, though, she knew it wasn’t in accord with her words, rather a need to get the story out.

“My father was good friends with the Baylocks, and had nothing but good things to say about Drusilla. She had a way of…ensnaring people when she wanted…she made exactly the sort of impression she wanted to make. She was accomplished, intelligent, charming…everything anyone could want in a wife.” He sighed and cast his gaze downward ashamedly. “There was no courtship. I met with Dru three times before our plans to wed solidified. I thought she was…I didn’t know what love was, and I was enchanted with her. There’s no one she couldn’t enchant. She had me under her thumb with a bloody glance…and she knew it. She knew what she was doing and she did it flawlessly. We married in a whirl and set off on a honeymoon that would’ve made the Queen envious.” A significant pause. “Monte Carlo was our first stop.”

There was nothing to do but wait when he grew quiet again. Buffy rubbed her thumb over his hand in silent encouragement. She tried hard to assume patience; these things could not be forced.

“You remember the bluff,” he said absently, as though buying time. “Dru and I picnicked there on our second day as husband and wife. It was there that she told me about herself.” Once again, he fell deathly quiet, his gaze dropping to their joined hands. And without warning, every inch of him dissolved into tremors. It was not a time to intervene with words, she knew, but she couldn’t keep herself from leaning inward to brush her lips across his. The liberation with which she kissed him was intoxicating. There were no boundaries anymore. Nothing left to separate them.

“I love you,” William whispered against her heavily. “So much, Buffy. I’ve never known love like this.”

She blinked hard and offered a watery smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah…I hear you say it…but what I am—”

“I love you, too. Nothing can change that. Whatever you need to tell me is in the past.” She kissed him again. “It’s in the past, William. I’m right here.”

The look he gave her forewarned he wasn’t convinced, but likewise understood forward was the only way to go. With a jerky nod, he continued. “What she told me was enough to terrify the devil. She was dark, corrupt, conniving, deceitful, and quite adamant on remaining that way. She snacked on goodwill and scoffed at anything that commanded propriety. She was powerful and she knew it…anyone she wanted was hers. Anyone she seduced was at her mercy. She thrived on physical pleasure and sought it from anyone willing to accommodate her.”

Heat flushed her cheeks. There was no question as to what William referred, but the implication alone was enough to scandalize anyone. “Then why did she marry?” she heard herself asking, surprised but pleased to discover the butterflies which usually accompanied her questions were nowhere to be found. “If she wanted to pursue…ummm…”

William scoffed. “’Cause she was a bloody lady, wasn’t she? It’s one thing if you’re a whoring child, but people talk. And people would talk about her. Not then, of course…her father married her off before rumors could circulate. And he made sure to marry her off to me, because I looked into her eyes and thought I saw warmth. I saw what she wanted me to see.”

“I didn’t know arranged marriages existed anymore.”

“They don’t…not like you’re thinking. But marrying for money is still…” He broke off and shook his head. “That’s another thing. Dru’s family wasn’t nearly as well off as they made out to be. The whole sodding lot of them were comprised of con-artists, and they couldn’t afford her lifestyle. I could.

“She told me she would make Manderley a success. That day on the bluff, sitting on a white blanket and eating grapes like she hadn’t just…she was devastating. Manderley would be a success if she got her hands on it. A manor infamous for more than its beauty, but its warmth and hospitality…even those bloody masques she insisted on throwing. Then she grew real quiet and looked me in the eye. Said, ‘Of course, if you prefer the scandal a divorce will bring, we can always go our separate ways now.’ And she knew she had me. I couldn’t do that. Not to my family, not even to hers then…not to Manderley. We made a deal, you see. There on the bluff. Our marriage was a business contract from the beginning. She would do as she pleased…all the while we played this role of being the perfect couple. All for Manderley. It seems so ridiculous now…but at the time, holding onto this place and making it what I wanted it to be overreached my need for…everything.” William sighed. Again, he avoided her eyes. “But that was the first time I thought about it. Then. On the bluff.”

“What?”

“Killing her.” He shuddered, self-disgust splattered across his face. “The world had come crashing down around me. It wasn’t real…the thought. I didn’t think it was real. But this woman I thought I loved—God, how that sounds now—was essentially telling me how she’d conned me into marrying her…into believing she was something she was not…and how she would use me…and she had Manderley as collateral to get what she wanted because she knew how much this damned place meant to me. She’d ripped away my rose-colored glasses, and I thought, just for a minute, how easy it would be to be rid of her if I…pushed her off the bluff.” William met her eyes briefly but glanced away before she could connect with him, as though pained alone by the thought of looking at her. “I’m so…the thoughts I’ve had…the things I’ve done…”

It was instinctive. She knew nothing but to comfort him. Knew nothing except her hand needed to slide over his shoulder. Her arms needed to take him into her embrace. Her fingertips made a slow dance over the back of his neck, tenderly weaving through his brown locks and coaxing his head up just enough so she could kiss him. “I’m still here,” she promised him. “You can’t scare me.”

“I’m a horrible man, Buffy.”

“No.”

A stark, desperate laugh crackled through his lips. “You can’t make it so just by saying it.”

“Neither can you.”

“You understand what I’m saying. This isn’t something that just happened. I wanted her dead long before I killed her. I wanted her dead then. That moment.” William sighed softly. “But I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t. But it’s why I went back there. To that spot. I had to see the place where I first thought of ending it. I thought…I thought if I saw it, if I stood there, I’d understand more of myself. What these last few years had turned me into…where there was to go from…doing what I’d done.” He grinned and met her eyes again. “And then you were there, and you wanted to save me. You were so pure. So…bright…I wanted you to save me, too. If anyone could, Buffy, it was you. You just didn’t know from what.”

Her heart clenched. “I thought you were going to jump.”

A slow, meaningful nod. The pain in his eyes was nothing short of crushing. “Yeah…problem is, love, I already had. Seeing you…you gave me a lifeline.” William shifted and focused his attention on the carpet. “But that’s…that’s why I was in Monte Carlo. Dru had set up a nice little scene and handed me the script, and I played my role. Everyone thought we…I don’t even want to consider what they thought of us…the lies she planted in the heads of those who carried influence while gallivanting across the countryside with whoever she was shagging at the moment.”

Buffy worried a lip between her teeth. “Were you jealous?”

“What?”

“That she was…you know…”

William made a face. “No. No. God, no. I didn’t touch her. Not after I knew what she was…she and I…we slept in the same room to keep the servants from talking, but she was hardly here. She was either at her boathouse or in town. No, love, I didn’t care about her affairs. I cared about my family’s reputation. She was a de Winter after she married me, therefore if she was caught in…compromising situations…she’d eradicate our good name. She threw parties, spent money like it was nothing, entertained down at the boathouse…and I was bloody miserable.”

Something in his words had another dark thought bubbling to the surface. One which made her shiver with revulsion, but she knew in a blink that she had to know the answer. Buffy swallowed hard. “Did you…ummm…if she…if your marriage was…”

“A joke,” he provided.

“Did you…I…I mean, she had lovers. Did—”

“No.”

She blinked dumbly. “No? I…I hadn’t even asked—”

A wry grin stretched his lips. “You didn’t need to, love. It’s all over your face. No, Buffy. I didn’t take a mistress. I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I was married. It meant something to me.” William frowned and rolled his eyes at himself. “My logic’s all buggered. It’s not like I didn’t think about it. I knew I was entitled…I wouldn’t be betraying Dru. Hell, she told me on more than one occasion I should…relieve myself every once in a while. But I couldn’t…I don’t take vows lightly. It’s the poet in me.”

The tone in his voice indicated apology. What on earth he had for which to apologize, she had no idea. The romanticism of being faithful, even to a woman he hated? The need to uphold vows he took in a church, even if the promise between them meant nothing? William was a poet, and words were his bread and butter. If he spoke them, if he meant them, he would follow.

As it was, she couldn’t be happier he hadn’t had a mistress. Though she knew, logically, if he had taken a mistress, Buffy would never be here. Only love could have prompted William into an affair, thus he would have loved whoever he took to bed. He hadn’t fallen in love while Drusilla was alive; he’d waited until she was gone.

“It sounds absurd,” he scoffed, shaking his head at himself. “Giving a fig about adultery when I put a bullet in her.”

“William—”

“I think it was Angelus who…his…bastard was always here. Always. He and Dru played friendly for the staff, only to sneak and have a shag in the nearest available room. They loved it…the thrill of getting caught. Didn’t matter who. They’d play it innocent publicly, but figured it was at the blame of the staff if they were…spied. So they shagged loudly. And roughly. They wanted attention. They wanted me to catch them.” His eyes darkened. “I did once. Never after that. I told her I didn’t want him here again, not that it did any good…but when I was here, she’d take Angelus down to the boathouse and…” A pause. “It wasn’t just him. She tried to seduce Xander and Wesley…though I think she learned once was enough after an attack from Anya. Wesley told me straight off, and I think that’s when he knew how things were. You know Wesley, though, he’s too good to mention anything.” William sighed. “She had me imprisoned in my own home. The place that had been so wonderful…the place I wanted to make…happy…as it had been for me. There was no happiness here. Drusilla drained me of everything. She infected…everything.

“I don’t really know what sent me over, Buffy,” he whispered. “And that’s what terrifies me the most. It was nothing. It was nothing at all. Dru was supposed to be in town for the weekend, but when I arrived home from a visit at Anya and Xander’s, Mrs. Hart informed me she had returned prematurely and Angelus would be with her. They both had already relocated to the boathouse in anticipation of my arrival. I sat in my private library for a very long time, seething, drinking…hating her. Thinking about the sham of a life I’d allowed her to create for me. Thinking how I was slowly wasting away into nothing…and how bloody content she was. And then something in me just…broke. I couldn’t fathom spending the rest of my life with her…like that. With Angelus trekking the halls of my father’s house. So, after my third or fourth glass, I retrieved my shotgun and went down to the bay to confront them. The gun…I never dreamed I’d use it. I just wanted to scare them. I wanted them to know I meant it. What I had to say.”

When he grew silent again, Buffy raised his hand to her lips and pressed a gentle kiss across his knuckles. He hesitated before gracing her with a small, sad smile. “This is where—”

“I know,” she told him.

“I can’t believe you’re still sitting here.”

“I am. And I still love you.”

William shook his head. “Can’t believe that, either.”

“The past means nothing to me,” she said again. “I didn’t know you then…I married the man that came after all this.” She offered a smile in turn and kissed his mouth. “But you…you haven’t told anyone else this, have you?”

“No.”

“Not even Wesley?”

“No. I think he knows, though. He’s always…I think he knows.”

Buffy nodded, more to herself, though, than anything. It made sense. Wesley’s pleading reassurances over the past few months were just as subject to interpretation as all the small moves she’d seen William make—the moves she’d translated as a man in mourning rather than a man consumed with guilt. It certainly explained why Wesley had insisted just a few hours ago upon driving up to Manderley to discuss her fear of William’s never-ending love for Drusilla. Perhaps he’d been ready to divulge the truth, or at least his understanding of the truth.

The next time she saw Wesley, she owed him a hug. A hug and an apology.

But for now, William needed her. William had needed her for so long; he’d simply been convicted of his own unworthiness. His assumption that needing her didn’t equate to deserving her—not after the crime he’d committed. She was determined to prove him wrong. She was with him; she was at his side, and there was nothing he could do to persuade her otherwise. Not when she knew the truth.

Not when she at last knew that he loved her.

After a long beat, William squeezed Buffy’s hand and fortified himself with a deep breath. “I found her alone when I got there. Angelus had yet to arrive. She was sitting in the dark with her back to me. She knew it was me without a word. I got to the point quickly…it was over I told her…I wanted out. I wanted a divorce. I didn’t care about our deal. I didn’t care about anything. I just wanted my life back. She stood up then and turned to me. I thought she might scream or gasp when she saw the gun, but she didn’t. She acted like it wasn’t even there.” He paused. “Looking back, it bloody figures. Dru’s unflappable. She always was. I could’ve stormed in there firing into the air and it wouldn’t’ve made an inch of difference. She always knew what to expect…and if she didn’t, she sure as hell didn’t show it.”

There was nothing to say to that. Buffy opted to nod her support and wait for him to remember himself.

“I told her I’d make sure she was taken care of,” William continued. “Divorcing her was going to be difficult enough…I thought money might make it…but she just shook her head and said, ‘There’ll be no divorce.’

“I knew she’d object but I wasn’t swayed. ‘It’s over, Dru,’ I told her. ‘Take Angelus and your things and go to town.’ But she didn’t move. She just looked at me, then at the gun, then smiled and said no one would believe it.”

Buffy blinked. “It?”

“Any cause I had for divorcing her,” he clarified. “After all, we’d played the part of the perfect couple. Everyone thought our marriage the pinnacle of modern success…how marrying for love…” He trembled at the word. “No one would ever believe she was unfaithful to me or that I wasn’t happy with her. No one would ever believe any motion for divorce. Too much time had passed and we’d never seemed anything but happy. I told her it didn’t matter. If she agreed to the divorce, I’d make sure she had enough to live as wildly as she chose until she died. But she had none of it. She wasn’t going to let go.” William sighed, and his whole body shook. “She was going to keep me trapped forever.

“Then she looked up and grinned, running her hand over her belly. ‘Wonder if I should have a child, Spike?’ she said. ‘Angelus and I are hoping for a boy. No one would ever believe he wasn’t yours. He’d grow up here, of course. At Manderley. And when you die, well, the sole heir would inherit the estate, wouldn’t he? I’d make sure he took good care of things. Might be a little looser than you with his pocketbook. We only have the one life, you know?’”

The air grew still. Clouds rolled over the sun and cast shadows through the open windows. William shook so hard it was a wonder the ground didn’t shake with him. He squeezed his eyes closed, unwilling to let her see what lay inside even if she’d promised it would never chase her away. He was perpetually caught among worlds—and God, how she was seeing it now. Every move he made, every word he whispered, every breath he inhaled was trapped somewhere between remorse and a feeling of endless inadequacy. Buffy did nothing. She didn’t calm him with words, didn’t offer him a kiss, didn’t caress his hand; he knew she was there, and what he had to say was more for him than for her. He’d lived with his ghosts too long. This wasn’t about placating her fears—this was about confession.

Still, she couldn’t help herself when he whispered, “Buffy?” His voice sounded so small. So desperate. As though he feared by her silence that she’d changed her mind.

Never. It wasn’t a possibility. She leaned forward before she could help herself and kissed his brow. “I’m here,” she told him. “I’m not leaving.”

William nodded, but she could tell he only half-believed her. “Everything went dark then,” he said softly. “Everything. She’d taken so much from me…so much I’d let her take. My freedom. My integrity. Everything I’d done since I put the ring on her finger was for Manderley. All for Manderley. I’d poured so much of myself into it…because it meant something to me. Manderley was the last thing that meant something to me. It represented everything good in my life which I’d allowed to be infected by her disease. It was my father’s house…and Dru was going to have Angelus’s child, and my father’s house would be…” He inhaled deeply. “I lost it. My eyes went black. All I could see was her. Laughing. Gloating. Her dark eyes shining, mocking me. She knew what she’d done. She knew it. And I raised the gun and shot her.”

The floor trembled with the weight of his admission. And though she’d known it was coming, Buffy couldn’t help but shiver.

“That’s it,” William said. “I put her body in her boat. It was a horrible night. Sea raging…the earth screamed around me, and all I could do was focus on getting her in the boat. I put three holes in the floor and stood by the bay as the water took it. Then I cleaned up the mess in the boathouse and…I haven’t been back there since. Not until today.”

Buffy nodded numbly, her mind racing back to the first trip to the Happy Valley. Jasper taking off for the bay, and Buffy’s mindless need to follow. William had been so angry when she returned. Demanding how she could have gone there, especially when he asked her to leave it alone. How she could venture to that portion of the property.

You wouldn’t dare…not if you had my memories.

And here they were. William’s haunted eyes overwrought, every inch of him shaking as though he’d shot Drusilla all over again. He was back there. Back at the bay. At the boathouse. He was watching the woman laugh at him, mock him, boast about the unborn child in her belly. The child which belonged to another man—a man William despised. A man who would someday hold claim to everything William held dear, if in blood alone.

“I had to leave,” he whispered, clutching her hand tighter now; like he needed to remind himself of the life he’d built in the aftermath. “Once it was over…the body that washed up…I didn’t know who it was, only it was a godsend. I said it was Dru and that was the end. And I left. I left and I found you.” He paused long enough to cast her a grateful smile, and her heart melted. “I found you where I found her, odd enough. Where I found who she really was…looking down at the place where I’d first wanted to kill her. I went there…and I saw you. And the black around me began to fade. You brought me into the light again, Buffy…but God, I’ve known all along. I’ve known I didn’t deserve you.”

“William—”

“She knew it, too.”

Buffy frowned, a spike of fear shooting through her veins. “She?”

A moment’s pause, then a short, cynical laugh huffed through his body. “Dru. Only place she lives now is in here.” He indicated his head with a tap. “You understand she’s always there. Always. Every time I look at you, she whispers how you’d hate me if you ever knew. How angels never know the devil is a gentleman until it’s too late. She’s everywhere. I thought I could escape her if I…if I proved I could actually love, that she hadn’t taken it away from me…and hearing you say you love me—”

“I do, William—”

“But you didn’t know. You could never know. You trusted yourself in the arms of a murderer.” There was a crack in his voice and for a horrible moment, she thought he might collapse in tears. “I looked at you the first night we were together. The first night I…we…you were so nervous, but you trusted me. You gave yourself to me and all I could think about was how unworthy of you I was…of the bloodstained hands that touched your perfect skin. I couldn’t look at you…God, I still can’t. Your love—”

“William—”

“And she’s always there. Always. The second I drift away, she’s waiting for me. Laughing at me. Telling me how you’ll hate me…how you could never…”

Buffy slipped from the settee and settled on her knees before him, propping herself between his legs. The hands which had held his so staunchly now came around his wrists, prying his arms down to his sides so she could see his face. “William,” she said softly, “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

“Buffy—”

“I’ve sat here. I listened to everything, and I’m not going. I’m not leaving you. It wasn’t cold blood—”

“It was. I’d wanted her dead for so long—”

“You reacted out of anger.”

“And that’s supposed to excuse it?”

She frowned and raised her hand to his face, her fingers gently wiping his tears away. “Do evil men weep for their crimes?” she asked. “The devil doesn’t cry out of remorse, William. He cries out of selfishness and pride.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand—”

“I do.”

“I’m not sorry she’s gone, Buffy. I never have been.”

“But you are sorry you’re the one…” There was no need to finish the sentence. “William…it hasn’t been just you. She hasn’t just been with you. She’s haunted me, too. Every step of the way. Every breath I’ve taken since I came here. All I’ve heard is how wonderful she was and how happy you were and how I was just a replacement for what you couldn’t—”

“God, Buffy…”

“She’s haunted us both. But she can’t anymore. Not if we’re honest with each other.” Buffy smiled softly and rubbed her thumb across his cheek. “I love you, William. I have since Monte Carlo. Nothing can change that.”

The seconds it took to cross the bridge could fill an eternity, but by the time she reached the other side, she knew at last she was home. The brightening of his eyes couldn’t be denied, nor could the rush of pertinent understanding that finally cracked through the hardened exterior of conviction and replaced words of doubt with love. William seized her and dragged her into his arms, covering her mouth with his and engulfing her in passion she hadn’t known existed. They battled hard only to surrender without a victor. He tasted of tears, of the bay. Of cigarettes he’d smoked God-knows-when. He clutched her like she was all standing between him and Hell, and she was determined to prove to him that wherever he went, she would follow.

“I love you, too,” he gasped into her hair. “I should’ve told you every day.”

She was too familiar to the sting of tears to be taken aback, but she didn’t want to cry.

She wanted to hold him, and let him hold her. They had just ridden the storm clouds out, and for a minute, brief as it was, she felt the kiss of sunshine again.

It wouldn’t last, though. Not beyond this room.

Beyond this room awaited the hurricane. There was no telling how long they had before it hit.

 

 

A/N: I’m back! And I have a very special treat for everyone who’s still reading. I am incredibly sorry for the delay on this; I took a brief break to write holiday fics and it took me longer than I thought to get back on track. But again, if you’re still with me, this chapter shouldn’t disappoint.

My thanks to spikeslovebite, dusty273, elizabuffy, and ghostgirl13 for looking over this. <3

Previously: A grisly discovery at the bay forces William to confess he murdered Drusilla, as well as the true details of their less-than-happy marriage. Buffy finally learns that she’s had William’s love from the beginning, but even as they take solace in each other’s arms, they know they can’t get too complacent, as the reality of Drusilla’s demise might end up costing William his freedom, and Buffy the man she loves.

A quiet blanket of calm settled over the manor.

William had remained at Buffy’s side all night, save for the few times he was called to the phone. It hadn’t taken long for the harbor master to confirm the body in the boat was female, leading to a series of uncomfortable phone trades speculating as to William’s stability when he identified the woman currently lying in the de Winter tomb. To his credit, William remained calm throughout every inquiry. He stood stationary by the phone, answering with detachment Buffy would have, just yesterday, mistaken for grief. But his eyes remained on her—fixed, determined. In those deep irises, she saw nothing but her reflection. He was absorbed in her.

Few words were actually traded once they left the unassuming sanctuary of the front parlor. However, stepping into the hall, Buffy felt the grip of Drusilla’s ghost at last fade away. She had William’s love—she had the thing she thought she’d never touch. And though the future was clouded with uncertainty, the peace she felt was insurmountable.

She had William. She truly had him. There was no way she would let him go. They’d made it this far by fighting two separate battles a world apart; they were joined now in ways they couldn’t have been before. Together they would beat back the storm.

Failure was not an option. She had something for which to fight. Something more precious than she could have ever dreamt.

The evening passed slowly. William accepted calls—most from Colonel Finn, though a few from reporters. He closed himself in his office until supper, and while they ate together, watching each other with newfound understanding, not many words were traded.

He kept looking at her as though he expected her to disappear. As though he thought her promise of love, regardless of the sins of his past, could not overcome the monstrosity of the moment. The horrors they had yet to face.

What was coming tomorrow.

She did not want to push him. Thus, after supper, she did as she did every night; climbed the stairs to the second floor and turned her feet toward the east. Tonight did not feature a spared glance toward the unused wing where William had lived with Drusilla. There was nothing to envy. That place was a cavern of sorrow, a tomb where her husband’s gentility and idealism had been all but destroyed. The shadows following her footsteps no longer whispered of her inadequacy. She felt, of all things, wondrously liberated.

Buffy moved about the room with newfound confidence, but opted not to change into her nightclothes, lest William be called to town. She had no idea what to expect; an inquest on the cause of Drusilla’s death, no doubt, but beyond that…

She couldn’t see that far. She didn’t want to try.

Ordinarily, Buffy would crawl into bed and wait for William to join her. Tonight, however, the prospect of slipping under the covers without him was unbearable. She instead took seat on their bed, the room dark, and waited. What had passed in the parlor hours before seemed like snippets of a dream, but the taste of his despair, the veracity of his fear at her disgust for his sins reminded her just how real the day had been. William loved her—he truly loved her. But he didn’t feel he deserved her.

Last night, she’d slept in their bed alone, every molecule of her being shattering at his unreadable eyes and the multilayered confession in the darkened entryway. She’d thought her life over—thought she’d truly resurrected Drusilla now, and there was no way for them to ever reach the small hope of happiness she’d once harbored. The delusion that if she loved him enough, it wouldn’t matter if he never loved her back.

Only he did love her back; he always had. And tonight she didn’t want to sleep alone.

She didn’t want William to walk through the door and find her already far from him. She needed him to know she was with him always—no matter what had happened in the past. The future was theirs. They merely had to outrun the ghosts.

Buffy had no idea how long she sat before he knocked, and after the echo died, she blinked dumbly at the door. William never knocked. It was his room as much as it was hers—more than it was hers. At any time, he wandered in as he pleased, uncaring, perhaps even eager to find her in a state of undress. But he was knocking now—knocking as if the room no longer belonged to him.

As though she wanted him anywhere but at her side.

Buffy cleared her throat and smoothed her palms along the fabric of her trousers. Her lips parted to call him inward, but then she thought the better of it and rose to her feet. It would take time to assure him that she wanted him—that she loved him regardless of his past. That she wasn’t living in a daze and speaking simply to reassure him rather than out of truth.

The door creaked as she opened it, and then her eyes were lost in his. William stood inches from her—mere inches that somehow seemed to fill a gorge.

“May I…” He began awkwardly, his breathing ragged, every inch of his body trembling. “…do you want…”

It unnerved her to see him so rattled. William had for so long been a pillar of strength. The stone façade he’d worn these last few months had hidden more than the truth of Drusilla’s fate; it had also concealed the passionate, emotion-driven man beneath she saw now. Words weren’t enough. He failed to see his own goodness, focused too much on his failing to identify himself as a victim.

Drusilla had nearly destroyed them both. Buffy needed no proof other than the bruises her heart still wore and the glares Mrs. Hart leveled her way every time they passed. It didn’t take knowing Drusilla to identify her as toxin; Buffy knew William. He was kind and compassionate. He was loving, funny, intelligent, and for too long he’d been trapped in his own home.

Not anymore.

Buffy nodded jerkily and threw the door open. “I meant what I said downstairs,” she said softly. “I meant every word. I love you.”

A relieved whimper tumbled off his lips. “Thank God,” he gasped, nearly falling into her arms. “I need you so much, Buffy. So much.”

His raw, broken voice nearly ripped her in two. “I’m not going anywhere,” she promised, her heart in her throat. “Did something happen? I know you were on the phone all night…”

William shivered, shaking his head hard against her. “Nothing we didn’t expect,” he murmured. “There will be an inquest. But…nothing. They didn’t find…anything. Not on her. The bay’s had her too long. There’s no evidence of…” He broke off with another hard shudder. “Of what happened.”

Buffy nodded, her fingers tunneling through his hair. “It will be all right,” she whispered, and she believed it. “You just said it yourself…they didn’t find anything. They will think you were distraught when you…it will be all right.”

William’s grip on her tightened, a bitter chuckle burning his throat. “Bloody distraught,” he agreed cynically. Then his voice dipped with a whisper. “I can’t believe you’re still here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Her hand found his chin, tipping his head upward to taste his lips with her own. The velvety feel of his mouth had her knees weakening. Their kisses had always been delicious, but there was something so inherently separate from their stolen moments of intimacy of the past and the tenderness which had blossomed between them in the few hours since the confession downstairs. While William’s touch had always left her burning, there was simply no comparison to this. To his tongue’s passionate exploration of her mouth. To the way he held on to her with aching desperation. To the small whimpers scratching at his throat—the way his need poured through every move he made.

“Buffy,” he gasped into her mouth, coaxing her arms to link behind his neck. Then he was walking her backward, murmuring her name between desperate kisses. “My Buffy. My Buffy…”

Buffy nodded hard, her voice cracking. “Yes. Oh Will…”

“I’ve done so much wrong by you.”

“It’s all right.”

William shook his head. “No. No, love, it’s not all right. I made you…what I made you believe…” He cupped her cheeks as her legs hit the mattress, drawing her into the ocean of his eyes. “I didn’t deserve you. I couldn’t…and in my wanting you while knowing I didn’t deserve you, I pushed you away. I didn’t mean to…I never meant to make you feel like you were anything less than royalty. I’ve been so selfish, Buffy. So bloody selfish. I’ve needed you but I’ve felt like having you was…it was just asking too much.”

She swallowed, her hips swaying against his in a manner she barely registered. He was hard against her, and she wanted him desperately. Wanted him like never before—wanted him at last like a woman. In the past few hours, Buffy felt she had grown up. She understood so much about herself now—things which had eluded her only yesterday. And while she and William had made love before, she had never initiated anything. She had always waited for him to come to her, so certain anything else would be rejected for want of a woman who no longer lived.

It wasn’t so. William wanted Buffy, and he always had. The frightened child that had lived with her for so long had finally vanished. She was no longer a little girl. She was a woman, and she had grown up.

“There’s so much I’ve wanted to give you,” William said gently. “So much I…I’ve wanted to do to you.”

Her cheeks flamed. “We’ve done a lot.”

There was a pause; his eyes darkened. “Not nearly enough,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth. “I’m a bad, bad man, Buffy.”

“No, you’re—”

“No.” He grinned, this time rakishly. “I mean the things I’ve wanted. The things I’ve…I’ve wanted to do to that delectable body of yours. Our first night together…do you remember?”

Buffy nodded, a small thrill racing down her spine. “Yes. I was so terrified.”

“I wanted you so much.” His fingers dropped to the buttons of her blouse. “I wanted to pepper kisses across your lovely breasts. Have I told you that you have lovely breasts?”

A lump the size of the island swelled in her throat. Her eyes watered and she shook her head, shuddering hard as his mouth took chart down her throat, drawing her flesh between his teeth and nibbling her delicately—such that she was suspended between jolts of pleasure and tugs of pain. She felt her blouse fall away, and then the only thing between his hands and her flesh was her brassiere. One of many brassieres she felt made her look much more ample than she was in reality.

“You do,” William murmured, trailing his mouth along her collarbone. “So soft. So pretty.” The air snapped as the clasp was liberated, and the protective cups dropped away and her naked flesh was his to explore. His kisses traveled further southward, wandering across the slope of her breasts as small, gratified murmurs scratched his throat. “Buffy…”

She existed a world apart. Never before had she been touched like this. Never before had he whispered against her skin as his mouth pressed kisses across her breasts. As he told her how lovely she was, how small and perfect. Never had she been in William’s arms with him completely. He was always somewhere else, he was always far away. Convincing himself he wasn’t worthy of the love she so desperately wanted to give him.

That wasn’t to say lovemaking with William hadn’t shaken her foundation. The pure bliss of being one with him, of feeling him in her body, had sustained her, fueled her with hope, and given her a part of him she thought otherwise untouchable. But he’d never met her eyes before when they were intimately locked. Never looked at her as he moved within her—never had he allowed it.

William had kept himself at bay. The passionate creature who held her now was the William she’d seen only in glimpses. This was the man whom had screamed at her for wandering toward the bay. The man whom had mauled her lips upon discovering Angelus’s visit. This was the man whom had taken her by storm downstairs. He was free at last, no longer the captive of his own misgivings. No longer bound by the whispers of his demons. He might have walked through shadows, but he was in the light now. And he was learning her as though they’d never before shared a bed.

As though tonight was their first as husband and wife.

Her legs hit the edge of the bed as his tongue flattened against her nipple, small shivers rippling across her skin. His fingers tenderly fondled the underside of her other breast and squeezed her with something akin to reverence. He licked her, flicked her, drew her into his mouth and sucked. Beads of white hot pleasure fired through her veins, small but insistent, and growing by the second.

“Our first night, I wanted this,” William murmured against her, leaving her nipple with a parting kiss before his head shifted to her other breast, giving her the same treatment. “Wanted…and maybe I could have.”

He pulled her tightly into his mouth, something resembling a purr vibrating through his throat. The way his tongue moved across her skin, the way it curled and laved and rubbed her sensitive peak before tracing the gooseflesh his attention incited made Buffy feel thoroughly cherished in a way she’d never imagined. She was no stranger to affection—rather, she’d been at the receiving end of affection for months. But this was something more than affection; this was love. Love unlike the sort formed between friends and family. Love unlike anything the world could fathom. William loved her, and she felt it in every move he made.

“I was selfish,” he continued in a whisper, releasing her nipple with a wet plop. “I wanted you but…I couldn’t let myself have you the way I craved.” Soft kisses whispered down her belly as his mouth migrated southward. “I’d make love to you, and then dream about this. About tasting you like this. Of loving you the way I truly wanted.” He nipped at her bellybutton before lowering himself fully to his knees. “But dreams were…she’d…they never lasted. They never lasted, love. She was always there. Always chasing you away. Always telling me—”

Buffy tensed and cupped his cheek, directing his gaze upward. “This isn’t a dream, William,” she promised hoarsely. “And it’s just us.”

He nodded, his eyes heavy. “Just us.” A lengthy pause; his head fell downward again, soaking in her bare stomach before gracing her flesh with a kiss. Then his fingers pulled on the waistband of her pants, gently coaxing her onto the mattress. He made quick work of her footwear before gently encouraging her to roll her hips upward as he dragged her trousers down her legs.

William’s face had never been so close to her center, and at once, she felt a warm blush flood her skin. He’d touched her there, rubbed her with his fingers until she climaxed, but never spread her on a bed like this. Never had the look in his eyes that he had now. Her remaining undergarment was gone in a matter of seconds, and then she was thoroughly naked for his exploration.

“I never touched you like this,” William stated matter-of-factly, his fingertips whispering across her mound, through her curls until his index finger was pressed between her vaginal lips, rubbing her wet flesh with gentility that betrayed intent. “I can’t believe I’ve had you for so long without touching you like this.”

When he glanced up again, his eyes melted. “And you…this is why.”

His thumb slipped over her clitoris, rubbing her with almost lazy circles.

Buffy was certain her heart would leap from her chest, but it didn’t. The white streaks of pleasure he’d sparked with his mouth blazed harder. She fought the urge to thrust her hips against him, though for reasons she could not fathom, only it felt as though they were at the beginning all over again. As though her limited knowledge was completely eradicated, and he was at the beginning. He was reeducating her. Silently shoving the months of intimacy they had enjoyed aside in favor of teaching her as he’d wanted from the start. “W-why?”

“The way you’re looking at me now,” William said softly. “I couldn’t have you look at me like that with what…”

He didn’t finish. There was no need. Instead, he turned his attention back to her exposed flesh, licking his lips hungrily. “You trusted me with your body without knowing what I was. I couldn’t take advantage…”

“It’s not—”

“God, but you’re heavenly.” William’s mouth neared her center, sending electric shocks through her veins. Buffy attempted to sit up—to cover herself, to close her legs, to do anything—but he refused. Her thighs were kept spread by strong forearms, his thumb still massaging her slippery pearl. With his other hand, he parted her intimate lips and favored her most secret flesh with a long, lavish lick.

Any thought of resistance promptly melted away. A hard gasp clawed through Buffy’s throat, her head rolling back. She caught herself before her back collapsed entirely on the bed, propping herself up on her elbows, wide eyes taking him in as William situated her so her knees were draped over either shoulder.

“You have no idea how gorgeous you are, do you?”

He didn’t pause and let her think. Rather, his tongue stole several more licks of her wet flesh. Every swipe had her damn near jolting off the bed, and for once, her mind was too clouded with sensation to bear any thought. He prodded her opening before delicately delving inside her, licking her inner walls with such tenderness she nearly burst into tears.

“Taste so good.”

Buffy blinked dazedly as another hard tremor seized her body, at last sending her fully against the mattress. “I…I do?”

“God yes,” William murmured, nuzzling her. “Like honey. So bloody rich. I’ve wanted to taste you for so long, kitten. Wanted to bury myself here…” He ran his fingers over her mound. “Wanted to lick up every inch.”

She trembled. “Will…”

Two fingers slipped into her body and the thumb gently manipulating her clitoris was replaced by the wet haven of his mouth. With the first tender swipe of his tongue, she bolted off the bed, hips bucking madly against his face. Her reaction didn’t startle him away like she would have thought; rather, a rakish grin stole his lips and he licked her again. Once, twice, then her hypersensitive flesh was between his lips. He pulled and sucked on her, teased her with his tongue, waggled her with a shake of his head. Ecstasy ricocheted and built, fanning toward something she’d never experienced save for when he was inside her. Save for when his body was locked in hers—holding her to the earth, keeping her grounded. But he wasn’t inside her now—he was driving her mad with his mouth, and when she felt herself lift toward explosion, there was no one to anchor her.

“That’s it,” William purred into her wet skin. “Let it go, sweetheart.”

Buffy sobbed and split apart, spasming hard under his mouth. She thrust madly against him, control a thing of the past, tears stinging her eyes and her heart flailing against her chest. Her body buzzed with warmth, numbed, and then she felt him. His tongue still prodding her, licking up everything she’d given him. His thumb at her clitoris again, stroking softly so as not to let the fire die down. As if it could. As if she could calm with him looking at her like she’d fallen from the heavens. As if he hadn’t been the one to show her the stars, rather a passenger she’d taken along the ride.

“You’re glorious.”

Her voice was harsh when she tried to use it. “Oh William…”

“Absolutely glorious.”

He kept her under his eyes a minute longer before releasing a small sigh and rising to his feet. The second his flesh left hers she was overtaken with cold. Buffy sat upright. “Don’t leave,” she said softly. “Please.”

He frowned and looked at her quizzically. “I’m not…oh Buffy. No. I’m just…” An awkward grin tickled his mouth as he gestured to his persistent state of dress. “I’m just going to…”

“Oh.”

William smiled and leaned forward, brushing a kiss across her brow. “Not going anywhere,” he promised, though his eyes spoke the words he couldn’t. He wasn’t going anywhere tonight. Tonight he was hers—the morning could change everything.

No. No. Buffy forced her thoughts away from the bay. She wasn’t going to think of what daylight might bring. Not when she had something truly worth fighting for. Her jaw hardening with resolution, she rose to her feet and lifted trembling fingers to the buttons of William’s dress-shirt. She’d never been proactive in disrobing him—content always to sit by, never wanting to overstep her bounds. Tonight there was no such fear, only conviction.

Still, she couldn’t quite meet his eyes as she undressed him. William had shaken her hard; in just a few hours, her entire world had redefined itself. And while she didn’t doubt the truth of his words or the depth of his love for her, it would take more than knowledge to reshape her horizon. It would take the deepest form of understanding.

William inhaled sharply when her fingers grazed his bare chest, his eyes darkening. The slightest touch was enough to snap his patience. He pushed her back and tore his shirt from his body, his hands flying to his trousers. In seconds he was as naked as she, his chest crashing, his eyes consuming her. They came together in a frenzy, mouths fusing, arms entangling, falling together on the mattress. His lips savaged her skin, leaving no part of her untouched. Hands wandered across her breasts and belly before slipping further between them to tease the ache between her legs.

It seemed imprudent to beg after he’d already numbed her with pleasure, but she couldn’t help herself. He’d refused to let the fire die and now she was burning all over again. Buffy craned her neck with a gasp, her fingers tunneling again through his hair.

“William…”

His heated eyes met hers, his mouth pulling on one of her nipples. “I want to remember you just like this,” he said after he released her, moving upward so the head of his erection nudged her slippery folds. “On our bed. Beneath me.”

Her breath hitched but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t do anything but nod. And then he was sliding into her, parting her body with his. Buffy’s chest tightened. She linked her arms under his shoulders and pulled him closer. Their breaths mingled in the space between their mouths, uniting in a sigh once he was fully within her. It was a dance she knew but had to relearn all the same. Her body knew his so well, but not without the unseen barrier. Not without the veil between them.

William’s crystal eyes absorbed her. They remained locked in silence, him inside her, her legs curled at his sides, as though getting to know each other all over again. And when he blinked with doubt and turned to bury his face in her shoulder as always, she was there to catch him.

“No,” she whispered, fingers catching his cheek before he could turn away. “No, darling. Look at me.”

He trembled but didn’t argue. His eyes found hers again.

“I trust you,” she promised him, lifting her head to kiss his lips. “I know it, William. I know everything. Keep looking at me.”

Another hard breath rolled through him. He blinked hard, rapidly, silent tears misting his gaze. But he didn’t look away. Not as he wept. Not as he began moving inside her. He watched her. Watched as her words dissolved into whimpers. Watched as she rolled her hips beneath him, recapturing his length every time he slipped away. Watched as the sounds around them gave way to moans and sighs, to the creaking of the bed beneath their rocking bodies and the illicit wet smacks of their flesh colliding. Watched as the world fell apart and rebuilt itself. He watched her—his eyes remained lost in hers. He cried silent tears until realization fused with understanding; she wasn’t going to refuse him.

“Keep…looking…”

William nodded, his eyes remaining open as their tongues entwined, and even with the feel of him moving inside her, the intimacy of watching him as they kissed shook her to her core.

“Say it,” Buffy gasped when her body demanded air, her head falling against the pillow. His thrusts were coming harder now, new need blazing across her skin. Where the demand came from, she knew not. Only that it was important—she needed to hear it now. Now with William inside her, with his eyes on her, with the taste of his kisses in her mouth, she needed him to say it. She needed the words so badly.

“Buffy?”

“Tell me, William,” she begged sweetly, nipping at his lips. “Please.”

A flash; then he knew. “I love you,” he told her. “I love you. I love you so much.”

She sobbed. “Will…”

“I love you. I should have told you…God…” His brow found hers, his eyes remaining with her, his thrusts coming harder. “You’re warm. You’re heaven. Never felt this, Buffy. Not once. Just you. Only you.”

“Oh…”

“Burn me up, you do. And you love me.”

She nodded blindly, sucking his lower lip into her mouth. She battled him best she could, demanding custody of his body every time he dared pull back. Every time she felt his erection threaten to slip out of her—every time he teased her before slamming back home. “I do,” she gasped. “I do. William…”

“Always, love.”

“Yes.”

William kissed her lips again. “Still with you,” he promised softly. “Just need to…” His eyes broke away for a beat as his mouth wandered down her throat. “Always deserved to be worshipped.”

“Wo-worshipped?”

“You’re a goddess, Buffy. Liquid fire, you are. Burn me so sweet.” He growled lightly when his mouth found her breasts again, and had she been in such position she might have laughed. He seemed rather preoccupied with them. Not that she was complaining—not if his tongue kept teasing her nipples like that. Then he met her eyes again and the world was set ablaze. She felt she could come apart simply by watching him.

“Want to feel you,” he whispered suddenly, slipping his left hand between them. Her eyes followed suit, absorbing the sight of his nimble fingers teasing her as his length dipped in and out of her. And the second she felt him rub her clitoris, the white heat he’d kept her under roared to freedom and she felt herself spiraling toward ecstasy again. Clenching him. Drenching him. An inhuman cry rode off her lips as her nails dug into his shoulders, and she held him as he kept thrusting, his eyes never leaving hers.

Not even when she felt him tense and spill inside her. He watched her. He never stopped watching her.

And she never gave him reason to look away.

The night saw little rest. They held each other, talked to each other, cradled each other in the midst of gruesome uncertainty, and they made love until strength faded in favor of sleep. William didn’t let her sleep away from him—didn’t let her scoot to the edge of the bed she had for so long thought of as hers.

Never again, he told her. Never did he want to sleep without her in his arms.

She pillowed her head at his chest, their hands clasping and resting at his belly.

Tonight, there was no cold. Only warmth.

Tonight, there was no doubt, only knowledge.

Tonight, William was undisturbed by nightmares.

They slept in each other’s arms, encompassed in silence.


TBC


End note: I thought it was time, even though it didn’t follow my outline, to reward my faithful readers and earn this story’s rating. I did attempt to keep the love scene appropriate and “in step” with the rest of the story…and my betas have assured me it was, indeed, tender and tasteful rather than tawdry.

 

 

A/N: My current plan is to wrap this story up in three more chapters. Thank you guys so much for not giving up on me—particularly thanks to ghostgirl13 who wouldn’t let me give up on myself. For this chapter, thanks to dusty273, spikeslovebite, and ghostgirl13 for looking over it for me. You guys are the best!

Dawn crept over Manderley like a villain, stealing the night for the glaring, unforgiving light of morning. Buffy awoke with slow leisure, finding her head pillowed on William’s chest and a pleasant ache lingering between her thighs. Flashes of their passion played across her mind in the manner of a flicker show and sent a warm blush across her skin, one which could not help to counter the giddy tightening of her chest or the smile on her lips.

It was the first time she’d awoken completely in his embrace. There had been a few mornings when he’d draped an arm over her waist or rested a hand at her hip, but never had she been fully entangled in him. Never with his naked flesh beneath hers, her right leg woven around his. Never before had she felt closer to him, and it was a sensation she never wanted to forfeit.

The night had given her so much. For the revelations he’d made, the promise of love he’d given her, she’d half-expected to awake in the prison-world to which she was most accustomed. Not the world William had shown her the night before. It seemed unreal that only a day had passed since she found herself alone in their room. Since she’d been so certain that William was forever beyond her reach. Since the panicked phone-call to Wesley, in which he’d begged her to remain calm until he could drop by and speak with her.

William was beside her, nude, and sleeping. She had no idea what time it was, nor did she particularly care. The routine phone call Mrs. Hart rang to the Morning Room was unimportant. She was with William, and she didn’t want to leave his side.

The line between their former bedroom life and what she had experienced the night before absolutely rocked her foundation. Making love with William had always been a revelation, but what he’d done to her last night transcended any conception she had of physical intimacy. He’d touched her like he’d only then opened his eyes. As though his hands had never before caressed her skin. As though they had never shared anything before last night; before they had truly stepped into each other’s worlds.

He’d devoured her with his mouth, worshipped her with his hands and loved her with his body. And though she desperately wanted to know him as he now knew her, a part of her remained trapped within the lingering trepidation that refused to leave her entirely. The need to explore him gnawed at her; while she knew there was nothing to fear by bearing her own vulnerability, her fears were much older than her hope, and fear always had a way of prevailing.

Her body tingled with the love he’d shown her. Buffy wanted to give that love back to him.

However, when William’s eyes were on her, courage was in short supply. He unmade her with a gaze, peeling layers away and leaving her just as she was without a blanket with which to wrap herself. No matter how much he loved her—no matter how secure she was in something of which she’d previously been so uncertain—the prospect of being so brazen involved putting her healing heart on the line. It terrified her, but she wanted it nonetheless.

Perhaps if she touched him while he slept, her thirst would be satisfied without risking her heart. Buffy swallowed hard and shifted upward, drinking him in. Only once or twice had she studied him as he slept, and never without Drusilla’s ghost in the room. Now Buffy and William were thoroughly alone—they had cast the demon out last night, leaving them at last to themselves.

His chestnut hair was ruffled in the aftermath of their lovemaking and slightly wild with sleep, his head inclining slightly toward her. The steady rise and fall of his chest was gentle, much like the rest of him. His stomach was flat but toned, his nipples a dark, dusty brown. Soft wisps of hair formed under his belly, trailing beneath the blankets and leading to his penis.

Buffy inhaled sharply, her eyes darting back to William’s face. Then her fingers were around the blankets, slowly drawing the fabric southward to bare him to her hungry eyes. She was continuously amazed that she could be so unlearned in physical pleasure yet still no novice to it. Her hands itched to touch him all over—though where to begin was a different matter. Nowhere and everywhere seemed the best bet. She desperately wanted to feel his length against her hand, but felt it wiser to work up to holding him intimately.

Her fingers landed, as by their own volition, at his right breast. For as fervently as he’d suckled at her nipples the night before, she wondered if his own were as sensitive. What would he do if she licked him as he licked her? If she teased him with her mouth—flicked him with her tongue and nipped with affection that shook him with bouts of pleasure-laced-pain? Never had she thought any form of pain could be pleasurable; William had dissuaded that as well as many other misconceptions. He’d freed himself of his own shackles and unleashed a firestorm of passion beyond her imagining.

This morning was about the future, not the past. Buffy would never again be disturbed by what had once been. She had to become her own woman beyond the shadows that had haunted her. William loved her for her innocence and her light, and while she was adamant on maintaining both, for both their sakes, the future was laid open for growth.

She swallowed the lump that had stubbornly climbed back into her throat before bending forward, pressing her lips to his neck. The fingers playing absently with his nipple began a gentle slide southward, drawing mindless patterns across his skin. He was both soft and firm, breathing warmth into her hand with every steady rise and fall of his chest. At the same time, her mouth became more boisterous in its silent demands, soft kisses graduating to harder, needier explorations. Her teeth skimmed the column of his throat and wandered down the slope of his shoulders before trailing over his chest.

There was something addictive about courage. Though her heart pounded faster and her pulse raced, she was drugged on pure nerve and found herself wanting more with every stolen taste. When her mouth found his nipple, she treated him with a soft, almost shy lick before savoring him completely. At the same time, her fingers wove through the coarse hair trailing to his penis before finally working up the bravado to take him into her hand.

It was wondrously novel. The few times he’d guided her hand to his length, he’d instructed her how he enjoyed being stroked, though her memory was overshadowed with the ever-present fear of performing improperly or displeasing him. He was always hard when she touched him, but he wasn’t now.

Buffy worried a lip between her teeth, her mouth abandoning his chest as her cheek found rest against his stomach, absorbing the sight of her hand working up and down his shaft. It wasn’t long before his flesh hardened and expanded, growing to the size with which she was most accustomed. He was thick and long, standing upright against her wandering fingers. She explored every inch, curiosity and hunger ebbing her past the border where she would have previously reined herself in, instead dragging her deeper down the proverbial rabbit hole.

Her thumb brushed his tip, and the sensation shot shivers through her body. She did it again, then replaced her thumb with her whole palm, rubbing herself over his erection’s head, enjoying the icy hot shards racking her insides.

“God…Buffy…”

Her head whipped back. William’s eyes were wide, half-drugged with pleasure. For several seconds they simply stared at each other, both startled and caught in an odd stranglehold. Her hand must have halted its exploration, for the next thing she knew, he’d seized her wrist.

“Don’t stop,” he begged softly. “God, please don’t stop.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Feels wonderful.” A half-smile tugged at his lips. “Please, just…God, yes.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Buffy concluded, her cheeks reddening. “I just wanted—”

“And I suppose you think I’d want to sleep through this?” William countered, the grin stretching into something broad and delicious. “Your hand…Christ, love, please…more.”

She was in no position to deny him, especially when more was just what she wanted, as well. She resumed her exploration, palm rubbing circles against his head before taking him into her hand again. “Like this?” she asked, pumping him slowly. “I…I think this…”

“You’re wonderful.”

“William—”

He chuckled warmly, though it died on a gasp as his body arched into her touch. “Trust me, sweet,” he assured her, his voice strained and his breaths coming harder now. “You can’t not do this right.”

“You’re certain?”

“Bloody right.”

Buffy grinned and turned her eyes back to her hand. Then, remembering how his tongue had prodded her sensitive flesh the night before, she wondered how he would like her own mouth around him. For as much as he liked her hand…

Emboldened, she swallowed the last of her fear and took a long swipe of his velvety head with her tongue. Her name rushed the air on a whimper, encouraging her to pursue him further by drawing him completely between her lips. She hesitated, then drew him in as far she could, her hand dropping to his testicles.

“Oh God,” William hissed, bolting upward. He cupped her cheeks and drew her upward, smashing her lips to his. And against her, he melted with a long moan, feasting on her mouth, sucking at her tongue, coaxing her up his body. “You drive me wild,” he murmured, nipping at her. “Absolutely wild.”

“Was that okay?” Buffy asked shyly. “I didn’t know—”

William chuckled. She loved way his chest rumbled when he laughed. “You are adorable,” he murmured, dropping kisses along her chin.

“Are you teasing me?”

“A little. Doesn’t make you any less adorable.” His gaze dropped to her legs. “Straddle me, love.”

She blinked. “What?”

“See?” He kissed her nose. “Adorable. Throw your leg over…yeah, that’s it.” William sighed, his eyes trailing down her body until focusing on her center. “You’re so lovely. So lovely. And mine. All mine.”

“Will—”

“And that perfect mouth of yours anywhere on me is Heaven.” He smiled at her as he wrapped his hand around his erection. “Here, though…I’ve thought about your mouth around my prick more times than I should rightly confess.”

If her skin grew any hotter, it would likely slide right off her bones. Never had she sat over him like this—with her legs trapping him and her vaginal lips caressing the underside of his erection. Her skin buzzed. Her pulse raced. She was empowered and terrified and reassured all in the same beat, trapped in his eyes and living on his words.

And yet, all she could manage to say was, “Oh.”

William’s eyes softened. “Come here,” he urged gently, capturing her lips when she knelt over him. “Lift your hips, kitten.”

“Mmm?”

“Lift your hips. Wanna be inside you.”

Never had they made love in the light of morning. What happened behind their bedroom door always took place after the sun had dipped below the horizon. Now with soft rays of sunlight peppering the bedspread and William looking at her like she’d fallen from the stars, some inner door unlocked and led her from dreams into reality.

Buffy nodded hard, shifting upward so he was pressed against her entrance.

“You’ll guide me?” she whispered.

William smiled. “I’m right here.”

She sank down with a long, pleasured sigh, leaning forward so her breasts were against his chest, his arms around her. And as she began rolling her hips against him, the windows of her mind aligned with further conviction.

There was nothing more worth fighting for than this.

“I love you,” William whispered. “God help me, I love you so much.”

He could tell her that every minute of every day for the rest of their lives and she wouldn’t tire of it. For as long as she’d waited, for every wound she nursed, she wanted those words with her always.

Buffy kept her eyes on his. He never looked away. Not once.

He was with her now. Completely. Wholly. He was hers.

There was no way in Heaven or Hell she was giving this up.

It was well after the noon hour before Buffy emerged from the bedchambers, pleasantly sore in the appropriate places. Like the night before, she found the halls were brighter, the paintings friendlier, and the whispers she’d once heard around every corner had completely evaporated.

William had been called away to town, presumably where theories of an inquest would solidify. While nerves remained on high alert, Buffy refused to allow fear of the future damper the newfound light in her heart.

Buffy wasn’t surprised to find Mrs. Hart in the Morning Room, nor was she surprised that the cold which seized her bones at facing the woman had yet to fade into nothing. Drusilla’s ghost might have lost its power, but the housekeeper had done everything in her power to keep her mistress alive. Things which, upon having confessed these last few months to William, had him red with fury and ready to shove the old woman out the door.

They agreed, however, it would not be wise to anger Mrs. Hart while a formal ruling on Drusilla’s death was still in the air. There was no telling how much she knew or how much she would put together. While it was almost certain she believed William had been as infatuated with his late wife as everyone else in the country, there was little sense banking on Mrs. Hart to validate William’s good behavior. Not when she resented him so for marrying Buffy. Not when she’d attempted to coerce Buffy into suicide.

When Buffy had admitted what transpired seconds before the explosion at the bay, she was almost certain Mrs. Hart would have found herself pushed through a window herself for the rage in William’s eyes.

She and Mrs. Hart had not spoken, had not crossed paths, since the old woman had whispered how much better it would be if she jumped to her death. After it came out that it was Drusilla’s body in the boat, Mrs. Hart had staffed out her duties and vanished for the evening, presumably into her dead mistress’s bedchamber. It was no great surprise, however, to find her waiting in Morning Room. No matter what had happened, the woman was bent on obligation and duty. She might try to sabotage Buffy, but she would remain quietly civil. It was what made their encounters so terrifying.

“Mrs. de Winter,” Mrs. Hart said, inclining her head. Her large, cold eyes were unreadable.

“Hello.”

“When you did not answer the phone this morning, I thought I would leave today’s menu on your desk.” Her voice tightened. “I take it that it was to your liking?”

Buffy wondered if her cheeks were still flushed from William’s lovemaking—or if it was in her eyes, how she’d spent her night. Granted, this was not the first time she had crossed paths with Mrs. Hart after a night of lovemaking with her husband, but she felt, for all the world, as though she had been a virgin until last night. As though she stood now newly deflowered. She remembered after their wedding night feeling everyone who met her eyes would know she had been plucked. Even as she grew accustomed to intimacy with William, she had never relived the sensation of facing a day as an ex-virgin. Not until now.

“I hadn’t had a chance, actually,” Buffy replied, refusing to lower her eyes or bow her head. “But I would prefer baked chicken and mushrooms.”

“I have a French dish on the menu today.”

“That’s fine, but I would prefer baked chicken and mushrooms.” She smiled politely, taking in Mrs. Hart’s blank face. “Please relay that to the kitchen, and make sure it’s prepared by six. Mr. de Winter and I will be dining early tonight.”

The long, heavy silence would have lasted forever had Jasper not chosen that moment to bark happily and bound into the room. He pawed at Buffy’s legs to seize her attention and offered another joyous yap when she turned to face him.

“Hello, there,” she said fondly. “Want to go for a walk?”

Jasper barked again and, as though understanding her, turned and trotted back for the door, pausing only slightly to look over his shoulder to make sure she was following.

“Make sure those changes are made, Mrs. Hart,” Buffy said. “And please call and invite Wesley to lunch.”

Her feet carried her after her enthusiastic dog without another moment’s pause.

 

 

A/N: I know the excitement insofar as William and Buffy’s relationship in this story has died, but I do thank everyone who’s stuck with me for the remainder. It’s a ride I never thought I’d actually see to the finish, and the support from you guys makes it all the more worthwhile.

For those of you familiar with the book, you’ll notice I’m taking a slight detour from the way du Maurier wrote her conclusion. It’s not a break from what happened, per se, but I am cutting back a significant portion from the inquest to the final chapter, and I’m doing so for the following reasons:

1.) That section, while I love it, drags a bit.
2.) This is my story, modeled admittedly after du Maurier’s, but I don’t feel a need to do everything exactly as she did.
3.) I’ve been working on this story now for over three years, and I admit I’m suffering from “senioritis.” I really want to see it finished, not because I’m tired of it or no longer care for the story, but rather I promised myself I wouldn’t start another HUGE project again until it was finished and I’m dying to get to the other saga that’s been in my head since October.

As I said, the minor alterations don’t really affect the storyline. Or if they do, hopefully not too drastically. ^_~

Thanks again to my betas and my readers!

Were it not for Anya at her left and Wesley at her right, Buffy was certain she would have collapsed the second William left her side. He held her with a long, meaningful gaze, promising all he could without uttering a word, then moved away from her and to the heart of the large, daunting room. A room full of reporters, lawyers, and an eager sea of spectators, taken with reports of the unfeeling widower who hadn’t even waited for the sheets to cool before taking a second wife.

The past few days had been nothing but onslaught after onslaught—the bay exploded with excitement. With scandal. With whispers and speculation and heated debates as to what might have actually happened to Drusilla, all of which eventually led some to demonize William. He was a monster, it was said, for marrying so quickly after the untimely death of his beloved Drusilla. He’d rushed out to identify her body, too eager to forget, too desperate for fresh thighs to part. It didn’t help matters when Mrs. Hart disappeared three days following the discovery of Drusilla’s body, nor did it help when one of Manderley’s staffers leaked that tidbit to a hungry reporter. One of England’s more widely read papers reported that William’s most trusted confidant, Erzsebet Hart, whom had allegedly begged to remain on staff following Drusilla’s death, now found herself at such odds with what she believed to have been her mistress’s demise and what might have actually transpired that she fled the grounds in fear of her life.

Where the story developed, neither Buffy nor William had any idea. Despite Mrs. Hart’s sadism, it wasn’t like her to forgo propriety in favor of scandal. If anything, the old woman would likely keep a low profile and resented being at the center of any such gossip.

“That cowardly old hag!” William had screamed before thrusting his fist through the nearest wall three nights prior. “I bloody tell you, she better have fled the bloody country. If I ever get my hands on her—”

“William, please…”

“No, Buffy. No. Not after what she did. Not after the way she’s treated you.” He’d centered his gaze on her and held. “She knows. She knows I know how she’s…she knows…”

Buffy had enveloped William in her arms to cease his outcries and held him as he trembled. He was afraid; she was, too. Only a few days of paradise and the real world was again breaking through their wall. Now they were out of Eden and unsure of what lay ahead.

“Are you all right?” Wesley whispered.

Buffy’s eyes were trained on William. He was on the other side of the room, a horde of people separating them. He might as well have been across the universe. “Yes.”

“I did apologize for not making lunch the other day, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Wesley. Several times, in fact.” She turned to him with a soft smile. “You’ve been very good. Thank you…but…I understand things now as I hadn’t before. As I couldn’t.”

There was a long pause. “Do you?” he asked softly, his eyes wide.

“Yes.” Buffy turned to face him completely. “And do you, Wesley?”

“Do I…?”

“William and I have discussed…many things in the past few days.” She worried a lip between her teeth, unsure of how much to divulge while simultaneously needing so badly to know she wasn’t the only one in her husband’s corner. She needed to know that Wesley knew what was at stake. What could happen between now and the day’s end. And if William was correct, if Wesley did know, then Buffy could take solace in the knowledge she wasn’t alone.

Wesley nodded, his face unreadable. “Have you?” he asked. Then clarified, “Discussed things?”

“Yes. There’s…there’s little I don’t know.”

Another long pause. He nodded. “Then you’re on the inside.”

“Of what?”

Wesley directed his gaze to William. “Of whatever he told you. In this room, Buffy, you know more than the lot of us.”

“More than you?”

A simple smile crossed his face. “I only speculate. William is my friend and always will be. You are one of the best women I’ve ever known, and if you’re here for him, I can only assume he deserves it. From the look in your eyes and the way you two have gazed at each other today, I believe the problems you discussed with me are a thing of the past.”

She thought of the phone call. The morning she rang Wesley after the masque when she was so certain she and William would never reconcile; that things were so broken no amount of healing would ever lead them into new light. “That day…Wesley, you must understand—”

“What he said to you was—”

“It’s in the past.”

Wesley smiled wryly. “You made him grovel, I hope.”

“He made it up to me.”

Whatever retort waited on Wesley’s lips rode off into oblivion with the sudden jab of Anya’s elbow. “Whatever are you two murmuring about?” she demanded in a loud whisper. Then, without awaiting a response, she brusquely turned her attention back to the crowded room. “I really don’t understand what the fuss is all about. So Drusilla died in the boat rather than out of the boat. Does anyone really look like themselves after months under water? How was William supposed to know the woman he identified was—”

“Anya,” Wesley said sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Must you be so crass?”

“Wesley,” she retorted in the same manner, “must you act so shocked?”

Buffy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Again, she looked back across the room and met William’s eyes. While betraying nothing, his ocean blue eyes sparkled in such a manner she could have believed, if she tried hard enough, that he was beside her instead of a world away. As though they were anywhere else, exchanging a silent private joke over Anya’s flamboyance and Wesley’s quiet etiquette.

‘I love you,’ she mouthed, at first without thinking, then again with conviction.

William smiled softly. ‘Love you,’ he replied.

It was another few minutes before the room quieted. Buffy wasn’t familiar enough with the legal system to know whether or not the man leading the proceedings was a judge or not, but once her eyes settled on his, she found it didn’t matter. He held power over William, therefore power over her, and that alone made him intimidating.

“Leonardo McGarry,” Wesley whispered. “We’re fortunate.”

Buffy blinked. “Fortunate?”

“He was one of William’s favorite professors before he became a judge, and William has likewise written Leo several glowing endorsements in local papers.” He tossed her a small smile. “This is to our advantage.”

“Is it?”

Anya nodded, leaning over. “It’s always better to have a judge who likes you rather than one who’d just as soon see you hang.”

The image that flashed before Buffy’s eyes was something she never wanted to relive. “Yes,” she agreed quickly. “Oh yes.”

A stilled hush fell over the room as McGarry took his seat. He wasn’t wearing robes or anything that would otherwise identify him by his position, but he did have an expression of fixed importance that couldn’t be ignored. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman,” he said, propping glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Hopefully this won’t take much time. I know Mr. de Winter is eager to put this ugly matter behind him.”

William inclined his head but didn’t say anything.

“We’re here to decide upon the cause of death for the late Drusilla de Winter, survived by her husband, William de Winter. Previous cause of death thought to be drowning at sea.” McGarry sighed and rustled what appeared to be a stack of papers. “Though Mr. de Winter identified another woman as his wife, I think it safe to conclude that traumatic events, such as losing a loved one unexpectedly, can often result in impaired judgment.” He nodded at William without really looking at him. “I know this might be difficult, but for the purpose of declaring a cause of death, it is imperative to go over previously recorded testimony.”

William nodded. “I understand.”

“You might not remember everything. If something doesn’t match our records, it might be necessary to go over it again at length to sort through significant inconsistencies.”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“All right.”

McGarry removed his glasses and focused entirely on William. “Can you go through the last day again, for the record?”

William nodded once more, his eyes shifting in Buffy’s direction but not meeting her gaze. As though he couldn’t bear to look at her when he told this version of his history. The false version—especially when she knew exactly how it had happened.

“Buffy.”

She frowned and turned to Wesley, whose eyes were fixed steadily to their left. And when she saw what had his attention, her insides flushed cold.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her hands balling into fists. “What are they doing here?”

“William thought she might show up,” Wesley whispered. “It’s no surprise that she should be with Angelus.”

Seeing Mrs. Hart outside the confines of Manderley was startling, but her presence at the inquest, despite the improbability of her knowing anymore than anyone else in the room, save Buffy, served as a damning omen. The woman’s hatred for Buffy was very slight compared to how desperately she resented William. It was William who had replaced Drusilla with Buffy’s image—and while Buffy herself was an easy target, everything Mrs. Hart had done to harm her had been an attempt to hurt William.

“Do you think…” Buffy murmured, then immediately drew silent before she inadvertently asked a question to which Wesley could not possibly know the answer. She couldn’t ask her friend to speculate if Mrs. Hart would interject without divulging the truth. And no matter how much Buffy trusted Wesley, there was nothing in the world that could coerce her into endangering William. Let the authorities lock her up first.

“…arrived home late from my sister, Anya’s,” William was saying, drawing her back to his testimony. “Drusilla was scheduled to be in town all weekend, but our housekeeper, Mrs. Hart, told me upon arrival that she had cut her trip short and had retired to the boathouse. There was a fierce storm that night, but weather wasn’t the sort of thing to temper Drusilla.”

A collective, appreciative snicker rang through the room. As though everyone present had been party to or at least aware of Drusilla’s wild streak.

“Did you see her that night?”

William shook his head, still avoiding Buffy’s eyes. “No,” he replied softly. “It was late and the weather was already treacherous. I thought I would see her the next day. I spent the night in my study. The next day came and the boat was gone. Dru was gone. No one had seen her. No one knew where she was.”

“How many weeks passed before you identified the woman you thought to be your wife?”

He blinked hard. “I don’t…four, six. Time was…fuzzy.”

McGarry nodded. He thanked William for his testimony, and invited him to take a seat. For a second, Buffy thought that might be the end of it. She thought—and then felt her heart crash against her chest when Mrs. Hart was called forward.

“Oh great,” Anya drawled. “The old crone is going to talk.”

“You don’t think she’ll say anything to hurt William, do you?” Buffy asked hurriedly. William had tossed her a brief glance, not wandering far from the front of the room. Not able to join her and Wesley in the back. She knew why, of course; more questions might follow, and he needed to be readily available should he be called up again.

“State your name,” McGarry instructed.

“Erzsebet Hart,” the woman provided in the same, cold tone to which Buffy was so accustomed.

“And your station?”

“I am head of staff at Manderley.”

McGarry nodded, his eyes glued to his notes. “Mhmm, yes. And who hired you?”

“I have been in Mrs. de Winter’s employ since she was a girl,” Mrs. Hart replied. “I was her nanny when she was young and her personal maid when she was older. When she and Mr. de Winter married, I was named head of staff at Manderley.”

“Uh huh,” McGarry replied, his tone indicative of someone only half-listening, though there was sharp wit about his eyes that told Buffy he was hanging attentively on every word. “And do you corroborate with Mr. de Winter’s account?”

A very long silence settled through the room. “Mr. de Winter arrived home around sundown. Mrs. de Winter had been home for about an hour, and had immediately retired to the boathouse. Mr. O’Malley—”

McGarry glanced up sharply and removed his glasses again. “Who?”

“Angelus O’Malley.” Mrs. Hart waved to Angelus. “Mrs. de Winter’s cousin and close confidant.”

William turned in his seat at that, meeting Angelus’s smirk. There was a thick beat during which Buffy witnessed a dangerous shadow cross her husband’s face. It lasted longer than she would have liked, but she soon found herself under his eyes, and watched with a breath of a relief as he softened.

“All right,” McGarry said, putting his glasses back on and turning his head downward again. “Where does Mr. O’Malley come in?”

“He was scheduled to meet her at the boathouse that evening.”

The comment earned a few snickers. Several women shifted uncomfortably.

“Was Mr. de Winter aware?”

Mrs. Hart nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay. Continue.”

“Mr. de Winter, to my knowledge, remained in the house all evening.” She paused almost theatrically. “Very often, however, there will be days when our paths do not cross. I remained in Mr. and Mrs. de Winter’s bedroom all evening, awaiting Mrs. de Winter’s arrival. I heard Mr. de Winter upstairs after the storm began to rage. He paced quite a bit all evening with what I assumed was worry for Mrs. de Winter.”

McGarry perked a brow. “Assumed?”

“I do not presume to know every thought that goes through my employer’s head.”

The judge’s mouth twitched. “Fair enough. And what ensued afterward?”

“Mr. de Winter lost his color and didn’t eat much. He was very quiet. Very tense. When he received the call that Mrs. de Winter might have been located, he became intensely distressed.”

It was difficult compressing her reaction. The woman’s account, from where Buffy sat, seemed to do more than merely corroborate William’s telling of Drusilla’s disappearance; it gave credence to a man in mourning, something she never would have expected from the icy housekeeper. Hope was a fragile thing, especially when placed in the hands of someone who was desperate to destroy everything Buffy held dear.

Buffy had no idea what to trust. Mrs. Hart wouldn’t lie—she was too proper—but she certainly wouldn’t do her any favors.

“How was Mr. de Winter the day he identified the woman he then believed to be Drusilla de Winter?”

“Very vacant,” Mrs. Hart supplied. There was no emotion behind her account, and thankfully, she didn’t meet Buffy’s eyes. “Very hollow.”

McGarry nodded briskly. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Hart. You may take your seat.”

No one breathed as the woman moved back to Angelus’s side. The anticlimactic nature of her testimony had seemingly stunned even those Buffy couldn’t identify. And though her heart kept crashing against her chest, a larger part of her, despite her relief, remained unmoved. Unsurprised. There was no need to think Mrs. Hart would falsify her account, or reveal knowledge she had previously kept to herself. Her duty to Drusilla superceded everything else; if she’d ever suspected William had anything to do with her mistress’s disappearance, she never would have stayed. Not without action. Not without seeking some form of revenge.

“All right. Colonel Finn.” McGarry glanced up, motioning the man Buffy recognized as the one who had been in the room before William revealed what had really happened the night Drusilla disappeared. The man who had told her there was a body in the boat the divers had uncovered.

Unlike William and Mrs. Hart, Colonel Finn met her eyes when he was moved to the limelight, and smiled as though to reassure her it was nearly over.

“Could you expand upon your findings of eight days ago?”

“Following the crash of a local fishing boat, me and my crew discovered the boat that had gone missing the night the first Mrs. de Winter disappeared. Inside, to our great surprise, we found the lady herself.” He nodded to William. “At first, we thought it was someone else in the boat with her, but we were able to identify her based on various pieces of jewelry…with the help of Mr. de Winter and Mrs. Hart.”

“Did you find anything to contrast the accounts as I have them?”

Colonel Finn shook his head. “No sir. I firmly believe Mr. de Winter was under great duress the first time he was asked to identify his wife. Other than the other body, I have no reason to believe anything other than what has been described here is the full truth.”

Wesley squeezed her hand. “It’s almost over,” he whispered. “It will be over soon.”

Buffy nodded shortly. She could scarcely believe it. This thing she had dreaded so wretchedly—the thing she and William had both believed could rob him of the future they both desperately deserved—was nearing its end. In a few moments—perhaps seconds—she would be in her love’s arms, and the past wouldn’t be able to catch them anywhere.

“Well,” McGarry said, nodding shortly, “if there’s nothing else—”

Somewhere to the far left, a throat cleared, and the warm sphere of hope that had begun to swell dissipated. Heads turned and bodies shifted as a man Buffy didn’t recognize slowly climbed to his feet. He was dressed informally, denoting his station as working class, and his personality as one who didn’t care to be seen in official settings wearing attire most would consider inappropriate.

“Yessir, I got a question.”

McGarry peered over the rim of his glasses. “Okay. State your name?”

“Name’s Doyle. Allen Francis Doyle.”

“All right. What’s your interest?”

“I was commissioned by the late Mrs. de Winter to craft the boat that sank,” Doyle explained, belatedly removing the hat from his head and slapping it across his chest as though preparing to pray. “She had me work on several different models before she was satisfied, so when it was brought to town earlier in the week, I made a point to take a look at it to find out how it might’ve capsized. Mrs. de Winter was the sort to raise a fuss, see.” He frowned, then nodded at William. “My apologies.”

Buffy watched the corner of William’s mouth tug upward. “Quite all right.”

“I put in a lot of time on that boat, your honor,” Doyle continued earnestly. “There’s not a person on this island who doesn’t know how much time I put on that boat. None of my clients, at least. I was concerned, see, when I found out the boat wasn’t lost in the storm. It wasn’t lost. It sank pretty close to the shoreline. Too close. I don’t give a bloody damn how powerful the wind was or how high the water came…I knew if I got a look at that boat, I could give an answer as to what happened that night. And here’s where I have concern…”

Buffy didn’t realize she wasn’t breathing until Anya inhaled sharply and seized her hand.

“From what I understand, Mrs. de Winter was found in the lower cabin of the boat. The latch was sealed. The entire cabin was sealed. I don’t understand why Mrs. de Winter would retreat to the lower cabin in the middle of a storm like that and lock herself in.” Doyle shifted. “Understood, she could’ve knocked her head on somethin’. The wind could’ve sealed her in. I’ve been on the water a long time, your honor, and I’ve seen wind do funny things. That could’ve happened.” He paused. “But what I wanna know is who drilled the holes in the bottom of the boat.”

Silence stronger than any storm washed over the room. Then there was buzzing. Horrible buzzing. It rose from the floorboards and spilled into the air like toxin. Air clamored angrily against her chest, demanding to be heard over the steadily rising voices of the eager multitude. Her seat shifted. The walls began to spin.

“Quiet!” McGarry snapped. It didn’t help. People were talking loudly now. Openly speculating. Gawking. Peering over seats to catch a closer glimpse of William.

William.

“Those holes shouldn’t have been there!” Doyle yelled, excited now. The sound of a man eager to be at the center of attention. “Someone put those holes there! Someone sank that boat!”

McGarry fidgeted uncomfortably, tossing William an almost rueful glance. “Mr. de Winter,” he said, his soft voice somehow louder than the foray of debate swelling around him. “I think, under the circumstances, it might be necessary to ask you…were things perfectly well in your marriage?”

Oh God.

William’s jaw tightened and his eyes hardened. And Buffy was so far from him. She couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t calm him. Couldn’t reassure him. Couldn’t remind him wordlessly that she was here—she was with him. Couldn’t whisper to keep his temper in line or remind him what was at stake.

She couldn’t touch him. She needed to touch him, but he was so far away.

She couldn’t do anything but call out to him, even if her voice was muted.

“William.”

Though it was nothing but a whisper, her throat ached as if she’d been screaming for hours. And before she could blink, Wesley was holding her up, and she heard William. William’s voice ringing over the eager sea of spectators.

“You must excuse me. My wife looks ill.”

McGarry nodded a quick, wordless consent, and then William was rushing over. The floor moved. Her head spun. She found herself propped against a strong, familiar chest, and then they were out in the open.

Away from the voices. Away from the stares.

The future slipped through her fingers and she could do nothing to stop it.

Nothing at all.

“I really think Wesley should take you home.”

Buffy shook her head again. The cooler air helped clear her thoughts, though she couldn’t detach herself from the growing hum wafting from the halted inquest. It was better, now. Now with William’s eyes locked on hers. With William’s hands steadying her. With William’s lips cooling the rage in her head with soft, tender kisses.

“No,” she whispered, wrapping her hands around his wrists. “No, please. I’ll go crazy if I’m not here.”

“I can’t think if I’m worrying about you.”

“William…”

“Will.” Wesley materialized out of nowhere, favoring Buffy with an apologetic nod. “I’m so sorry, but I think McGarry is ready to commence.” He paused, his gaze flickering between them. “Am I taking Buffy home?”

William nodded. “I would really prefer it.”

“No,” Buffy protested with another hard shake of her head. “William, please. Let me go back in. I can’t—”

“You don’t look well, darling.”

“I won’t look any better if you send me home.”

A soft smile crossed his lips, and though he looked resigned, the relief in his eyes—the part which told her how much he wanted her near him—filled her insides with warmth. “All right,” he replied, kissing her gently. “All right. But out here. I don’t want you in there…where they can see you.” He paused. “I mean, I don’t want you to become a part of the spectacle.”

Buffy’s eyes widened. “Could they make me a part of it?”

“I’m sure, if they tried hard enough.”

“My guess,” Wesley interjected calmly, “is that Mr. Doyle’s observation will open a new line of questioning…but given Drusilla’s erratic behavior, it might be concluded rather easily that she committed suicide.”

“Suicide?” Buffy asked, wincing when she realized how far her voice carried. “You really think…” A beat. She caught herself. “You think Drusilla…committed suicide?”

A different voice stole the retort off Wesley’s lips. A voice which had her stomach curling with disgust; a voice which initiated a renaissance of the sickly heat that had nearly caused her to lose consciousness.

A voice which inspired William to anchor her to his side.

“Hate to interrupt such a tender moment,” Angelus drawled with a snicker, crossing his arms. “Goddamn, Spike, you sure know how to snag the pretty ones.”

“Angelus,” William practically snarled. “Anything I can help you with?”

“No thanks, old boy. Think I got everything under control.” He smiled unpleasantly, reaching into his coat jacket and retrieving a single piece of worn parchment. “See, if Doyle hadn’t done me a jolly by bringing it up first, this might not pack quite the punch it will in there. Gotta say, I can’t wait to see your face.”

William didn’t blink. He merely inclined his head with false civility. “Is that so?”

“Suicide? Oh Spike, we both know better than that, don’t we?” Angelus smiled unpleasantly and tapped the parchment against his teeth. “I think it’s time we let the lady herself do the talking, don’t you?”

He disappeared into the room without waiting another instant, leaving Buffy frozen in William’s arms.

“What does he mean?” she asked, her voice hard, her heart thundering. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing good,” Wesley murmured.

William stared for empty seconds at the place where Angelus disappeared, then turned back to Buffy. “Darling, are you sure you won’t go home?”

“I’m not leaving,” she said firmly. “Please don’t ask me again.”

“If he has something from Dru…something of hers he kept…”

“Don’t ask me to leave you.”

William was quiet for another second, searching her eyes, then broke off with a nod. “All right,” he murmured. “But out here.”

“No.”

“Buffy—”

“If you go in there, I will follow.”

Wesley smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t cross her, Will,” he advised. “Women are unmovable when they have their minds settled.”

Though she had never quite heard herself applied in such a context, Buffy felt no need to object. Rather, she crossed her arms and nodded, trying to appear braver than she was. Whether or not she succeeded due to her determination or William’s lack of conviction in fighting her was in the air; all she knew was he caved with a nod, a kiss to her brow, and before she could gather her thoughts, they were moving again.

Back toward the voices. Back to where Angelus waited with his piece of parchment. A piece of parchment which might have been from Drusilla. A piece of parchment which might take William away from her.

Back into the lion’s den.


TBC