Awards for Tempesta di Amore

[Prologue] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25] [26] [27]

A/N: I’m going to save the big author’s note for the conclusive chapter. The next will be the end of this story—one nearly four years in the making. All I have now is…my endless and utter thanks to everyone who stuck by me with this. I know at times it seemed I’d never finish it, but we’re in the final stretch now. Almost to the finish line.

Thanks to my readers and my betas.

William was adamant on keeping Buffy as far from the spotlight as possible. He didn’t want people looking at her, pointing at her, speculating about her. The inquest was to be about himself and his life with Drusilla; he feared what might happen should Buffy take a seat beside him. If she brought herself from the shadows and the whispers and the rumors and place herself steadfast in the public eye.

It was this and only this that kept Buffy from sitting beside him as the inquest resumed. Again, she found herself situated between Wesley and Anya, doing her best to keep her chin held high and her eyes far from Angelus. The steady breaths pressing her chest did not betray her racing heart, even if she felt the thundering could be heard for miles.

The propriety which had so long guarded her thoughts and actions had all but entirely melted away. She wanted to claw out Angelus’s eyes—wanted to scream to the court the truth behind William’s marriage if only to shove Drusilla into the ground. Paint her as the opposite of people—the opposite of goodness, of gentility, of decency, of anything resembling a life worth saving. A life worth anything at all. And though she knew her views were shaped and skewered by what she knew of William—by what she felt for William—she likewise understood her husband to be the very best of men, and trusted his judgment in place of all others.

One such as Angelus couldn’t be trusted. Surely McGarry would know it—if he knew William, he would know not to trust Angelus. He would recognize Angelus for what he was: monstrous, bitter, vile, incapable of love. A beast that was here only to hurt William, his motive protected under the disguise of avenging a woman who had truly been his equal.

“I might need to speak,” Wesley murmured. “Angelus’s character is not unknown, but if his evidence is as damning as he indicated, I might be able to counter the blow with what I saw in William and Drusilla’s marriage.”

“Yes, but what if Drusilla’s friends do the same?” Buffy asked, thinking of Darla Manners and Lilah Morgan.

Anya snickered. “To do so would defame Drusilla’s character, not William’s.”

“Not if they offer dishonest testimony.”

Wesley shook his head. “It would be unwise. Mrs. Hart would counter any untruths. No matter how she feels about William, she wouldn’t lie for the sake of seeing him hang. She’s too proper, and she believed William to be as infatuated with Drusilla as every other man.”

Buffy nodded, feeling hollow and useless. Though the air was chilled, she couldn’t stop burning. A hot, sticky sickness enveloped her gut, threatening to climb higher by the second. She felt Angelus’s eyes on her but didn’t dare return his stare. If she so much as blinked in his direction, there was every chance she would truly get sick, and then William would demand she remain outside as the proceedings continued.

Her eyes focused on the judge. McGarry resumed his seat, looking uncomfortable and more than a little reluctant. He tossed William a glance and mumbled a quick something. William nodded, replied in the same manner. The trade seemed cordial, if not a little concerned.

“The good news,” Wesley said, jarring her back to herself, “is that this is still rather informal. If Leo rules Drusilla’s death an accident or suicide, that’s the end of it. However…if foul play is suspected, it’s not the end. I promise you, Buffy. William will be home tonight.”

“It’s not tonight that worries me,” she replied. “Tomorrow is much more daunting.”

McGarry cleared his throat, an otherwise ordinary motion that, with him, had the ability to quiet the noisy chattering consuming the room. “All right,” he said in a manner indicating interruptions were punishable by death. “Are we ready to resume?” The room was silent. McGarry took this as a yes. “Okay. Mr. Doyle, could you repeat what you said before we broke?”

If Allen Francis Doyle were suddenly to drop dead of a heart attack, Buffy wasn’t certain she could muster up the decency to care. As it was, the man who had thrown her calming world into jeopardy without allowing her a free breath rose dutifully to his feet. “Yessir,” he said. “I said there were holes in the floorboard. Holes someone put into the bottom of that boat with a mind for sinkin’ it.”

“That last part is speculation,” McGarry noted.

“Due respect, sir, no it’s not. No one puts holes in a boat, ‘specially not the bottom. These cuts were too deep, too symmetrical to be done by anythin’ but human hand. That boat met the bottom of the bay by someone’s intent.” A beat. “Understand, I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’m not sure what happened…all I know is I know boats…that boat, specifically, seein’ as I made it and all. That boat sank ‘cause someone wanted it sunk.”

An excited murmur rang through the room. McGarry silenced it with another throat clearing. “Yes, well,” he said, glancing downward. “Thank you for your observation, Mr. Doyle.” There was another pause. McGarry kept his eyes lowered for a few long seconds, during which no one moved. “Now…I don’t want anyone making any accusations. This is not a criminal trial. It’s an inquest, designed to pinpoint cause of death. I’d like everyone to keep that in mind as we proceed with questioning. Is that understood?”

No one spoke, but the warning had many nodding impatiently. A sea of bobbing heads and eager eyes, and many wary glances cast in William’s direction.

“Mr. de Winter,” McGarry continued a second later, “my apologies to you and your wife for what I’m sure is going to be a very uncomfortable afternoon, but given what Mr. Doyle has presented, we must venture down a line of questioning that might be a little rough.”

William nodded. “Whatever is needed,” he agreed.

“Were things perfectly well in your marriage?”

“As well as could be expected,” came the reply. “Drusilla took pleasure in many things, and I was happy to provide for her. Before these recent events, I had not been aware of any such rumors that our marriage was anything but a happy one. I know Drusilla had her secrets, and I certainly had mine, but nothing that interfered, to my knowledge, with the sanctity of our marriage.”

Again, William was very careful not to look at Buffy, though she saw something in his face invisible to anyone who didn’t know him well. Who didn’t know him as she did—perhaps, even, as Wesley and Anya did. It was so subtle she wasn’t sure she could describe it if asked, but it was there all the same. A small tell that told her how much he loathed pampering the lie. How much he wished he could allow the truth of Drusilla’s character to ring from the top of every hillside rather than rely on the false history she had helped fabricate with her deceit.

“And to your knowledge,” McGarry continued, “your wife was alone at the boathouse?”

William nodded. “As Mrs. Hart said earlier, her cousin was due to meet her but was unable to make it to Manderley.”

“Can you describe your wife’s mannerisms?”

“Unpredictable,” William replied easily. “She loved challenging herself, and overcoming those challenges.”

A throat cleared from the far right cleared, belonging to a woman Buffy recognized from the luncheon whereupon the masque was suggested. Thankfully, it wasn’t Darla Manners or Lilah Morgan, rather the one friendly face of Drusilla’s acquaintances. Cordelia Wright, wearing a lovely cream-colored dress and a matching decoration in her chestnut hair, rose to her feet. She paused only briefly to meet Buffy’s eyes and cast her what appeared to be a reassuring smile. Then she turned to McGarry and said, “I’d like to make an observation.”

McGarry’s brows flickered upward with interest. “Your name, please?”

“Cordelia Wright. I was a friend of Mrs. de Winter.” Cordelia drew in a breath, nodding to William. “I would like to concur with what Mr. de Winter has said thus far. Drusilla was very vivacious—very daring. She enjoyed conquering aspects of life others found unconquerable. I remember several incidents when we were younger wherein she faked her own death…with great personal risk to herself, convinced of her invincibility. She did it for her own amusement. I’m sure Mrs. Hart remembers…once at the lake, we were terrified she’d drowned. We searched for hours, but we couldn’t find her. When at last we returned to the house, we found her in the drawing room, drinking tea and smiling from ear-to-ear.”

“Wait,” Angelus objected suddenly, jumping to his feet. The sudden explosion of his voice made the walls shake and sent another excited murmur through the eager, crowded gossipmongers. “Wait a second there, Cordy…”

Cordelia’s nose wrinkled with ostensible distaste. “Angelus.”

“I presume you have something to add, Mr. O’Malley?” McGarry drawled.

“I do,” he agreed, staring hard at the woman. “You’re not suggesting she killed herself, are you?”

“You knew Drusilla as well as I did, Angelus. Point of fact, I believe you were the one who helped her fake her death during the aforementioned incident.”

“Childhood pranks are one thing,” he barked. “You think Dru was actually dumb enough to ruin her own damned boat and lock herself in the lower cabin, knowing it’d sink all to prove a point?”

Cordelia shrugged. “If she thought you were on your way, why not?”

“She hasn’t tried anything like that in years.”

“I’m only saying it’s a possibility.” She turned back to McGarry. “Likewise…while I can’t imagine a motive…yes, I could truly see Drusilla simply…killing herself.”

“Horseshit,” Angelus growled, reaching into the lapels of his coat jacket to retrieve the letter he’d waved in William’s face so adamantly. “Drusilla pushed herself all the time, yeah, but she wasn’t stupid about it. The storm would’ve stopped her—she tested her limits, but she wasn’t an idiot.”

“Then perhaps she didn’t intend to fake her death,” Cordelia retorted. “As I said—”

“She killed herself?”

“It’s possible.”

Buffy held her breath, her eyes captivated by the verbal tennis match though she couldn’t help but steal glances of her husband. He looked riveted, if not a bit apprehensive. As though the notion of suicide itself was novel to him. As though he didn’t already know the ending.

“Possible,” Angelus snorted, tearing open the letter. “Your honor, Drusilla left this for me the day she disappeared. She’d been in town that day and came by to visit me, but unfortunately I was otherwise engaged. She left this, asking me to meet with her at Manderley. ‘Angelus,’ she writes, ‘I must speak with you. Meet me at the boathouse tonight. It’s a matter of extreme urgency.’ Now…” He flashed a smirk to William before continuing, “Tell me, does that sound like a woman hell-bent on killing herself?”

A gasp strangled the cry that tore at Buffy’s throat. Her head whipped back to Cordelia, hoping against hope the woman had a feasible explanation for this at the ready. However, her eyes were wide and her face was blank with confusion. After a pregnant pause, the woman shook her head and reclaimed her seat.

“Thanks for the try, Cordy,” Anya whispered, grasping Buffy’s hand.

“That’s a letter from Mrs. de Winter?” McGarry asked.

“Yessir.”

“Is there any particular reason you didn’t mention this before?”

“Waiting for the opportune moment,” Angelus replied, flashing what was supposed to be a charming smile.

To Buffy’s relief, McGarry looked intensely unimpressed. “I know you might be confused with all the people,” he noted, “but this isn’t a theatre. If you have pertinent information, you offer it up at the beginning.”

“Sorry, your honor. Won’t happen again.”

McGarry’s eyes narrowed. “Let me see the letter,” he said, motioning Angelus forward. Once it was in his possession, he read once, then again, then folded it properly and turned to William. “Is there any reason to believe your wife wouldn’t have corresponded with Mr. O’Malley?”

“Oh right!” Angelus snapped. “Ask Spike. Ask—”

“I have every confidence the letter is genuine,” William replied calmly, effectively silencing the protests. “Drusilla and Angelus were quite close.”

“There’s a word for it,” Anya muttered.

There was another long silence during which McGarry and William shared a meaningful look. “All right,” the judge said, drawing a deep breath. “Mr. O’Malley…obviously you have some thoughts as to what this letter means.”

It took a second for Angelus to collect himself. He kept staring at William as though trying to see through his skull—as though trying to understand why he hadn’t contested the letter’s authenticity.

However, Buffy understood. She understood everything. More than she thought possible. There was no reason for William to contest—contesting wouldn’t help him, as others could just as easily verify Drusilla’s penmanship. Others such as Mrs. Hart, whose testimony had already bent in his favor. His refusal to object gave him credibility. In that alone, he appeared sincere. He appeared as a man with nothing to hide.

He appeared honorable.

“I think for sure it means she didn’t kill herself,” Angelus sneered. “Does that sound like a woman who’s aiming to take her own life? She said she had to speak with me about a matter of extreme urgency.”

McGarry nodded. “And I suppose you have a theory as to what the matter of extreme urgency involved?”

“Yes.” Angelus tossed William a smug glance. “I think Dru wanted to tell me something that would’ve…well, let’s just say, put our boy Spike here in a bit of a pickle. See, it was no secret to most of Dru’s friends…hell, from the sound of things, most of the people in this room, that Dru and I were…intimate.”

As expected, an excited rumble surfed through the crowd. Buffy’s other hand seized Wesley’s and squeezed hard.

“Spike knew,” Angelus continued. “Spike knew and he hated us for it.”

Anya huffed loudly enough to attract a few wary glances. William’s jaw tightened but he didn’t react beyond that.

“Way I see it, Dru came to town for a very specific purpose. My pal Erzie can attest to that.” Angelus turned to wink at Mrs. Hart, who didn’t so much as bat an eye. “Seems Dru had a doctor’s appointment.”

McGarry’s brows perked. “This true?” he asked, his question directed at Mrs. Hart.

There was a deathly still beat. “Yes,” the woman murmured. “Mrs. de Winter had a standing appointment with Dr. Ethan Rayne. She went once every other month. The day she disappeared, she was in town for one of these appointments.”

“And this is relevant?”

“I think she found somethin’ out,” Angelus observed. “I think she discovered she was having a baby. My baby, to be specific. And I think that’s what she wanted to tell me the night she died. The night she…disappeared.”

A sick, familiar tightening pulled across Buffy’s chest, her unforgiving mind pointing to a scene she’d tried so hard to banish, lest knowledge betray her. The walls shifted in form and color, and she suddenly saw herself in the boathouse. William was with her, but his eyes were pointed forward, a shotgun coiled in his arms. It was a startling visage of truth, only she existed as a ghost.

Every word William had related formed a picture forever locked in her mind. It resurfaced on a whim, terrifying her, calling to her…showcasing years of pain through which her husband had suffered. Time she wished she could replace with her fully at his side—tangible, rather than wisps and figments. Drusilla had dangled the threat of Angelus’s child before William’s wounded eyes, knowing full well he couldn’t prove any babe growing in the woman’s womb wasn’t his. Drusilla had set everything in motion for the purpose of conquering everything William held dear when he’d already been raped of his identity, his freedom, his very self.

And now this.

“Erzie can tell you any child of Dru’s would be mine,” Angelus boasted with a broad grin. “Dru and Spike didn’t…well, let’s just say he didn’t know how to satisfy certain…itches.”

More excited, scandalized murmuring.

“We talked about what would happen,” he pressed forward. “If Dru had a baby, that is. She and Spike were so good at playing up the lovey-dovey no one would ever believe I was the father. And then, of course, the kid would get the manor. Manderley. A child of mine would inherit Manderley. Spike’s pride and joy. And if Spike knew about this…if Dru told him…”

McGarry’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you suggesting—”

“Holes in the boat. Dru locked in the bottom cabin. Spike conveniently identifying another woman…”

“Hold on!” Cordelia Wright again leapt to her feet. “Where do you get off—”

“If you wanna know that, you should have taken me up on my offer, dollface,” Angelus interjected, tossing her a wink.

A look of pure distaste waved over the woman’s face. “You are the absolute gutter of civilized society. Everyone who has ever met William knows he wouldn’t harm a kitten, much less a woman he adored. I don’t care what warped little game you played on Dru to get her to—”

“Warped little game? Dru worshipped me!”

Cordelia snorted. “In your equally warped little dreams.”

“Erzie!” Angelus had all the countenance of a toddler complaining to his mommy. “Would you please tell everyone the truth of it? How Dru was in love with me. How any child in her belly would be mine, not this sorry excuse of a—”

“That’s quite enough, Mr. O’Malley,” McGarry said grimly. Another ripple waved through the room. Eager patrons shifted in their seats, craning their necks to catch a hint of William’s stoic reaction.

William didn’t move. Didn’t budge. Buffy wanted so much just to look into his eyes, but he didn’t appease her. He couldn’t, and although she knew why, she ached with loss.

It was a long minute before McGarry was able to calm the room down enough to turn his attention to the old woman. His eyes were worn and tired, incredulity stressed through his worry lines. No one had anticipated the inquest taking so long or having so many turns, and it was becoming more apparent of how twisted the uncovered truth would be. “Mrs. Hart,” the judge said at long last, tiredly rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Do you have anything you wish to add to Mr. O’Malley’s…claims?”

“Tell them, Erzie,” Angelus goaded.

McGarry aimed him a nasty glare. “Is there something about that’s quite enough you didn’t understand?”

“I just want her to tell them. Tell the world. Tell them how Dru really loved me.”

“She didn’t.”

Two words. Strange how they were able to bring about dead silence whispered from the lips of a woman who was little more than a ghost herself. The smug arrogance on Angelus’s face melted in a flicker, traded for astonishment. “What?” he demanded, whirling around. “What do you mean she didn’t love me? Dru was crazy about me! She and I—”

“Mrs. de Winter didn’t love you,” Mrs. Hart said softly. “…my Drusilla didn’t love you. Or Mr. de Winter. Or any man. Love was a game. Love…never played into it. She would laugh about it. Laugh so righteously…no, Angelus, she didn’t love you. You didn’t know her. No one knew my Drusilla. No one knew her at all. No one but me. She was like the sea. Wild. Untamed. No one could tame her…she wouldn’t allow it. She would play with men…play with love…and laugh about it when we were alone. Life was a game, and she would be ageless. She is ageless.” It was startling to see the eyes of a woman who instilled so much fear and intimidation well with tears. “She never wanted to age. Never wanted her strength to fail or her willpower to be anything than what it was. It was a game. It was all a game.”

Angelus looked thoroughly shaken. It seemed hours passed before his jaw collected itself from the ground. He swallowed hard. “Well,” he said, his voice desperately attempting to regain its edge. “Would you at least agree that if Dru was pregnant, the kid would belong to me?”

Mrs. Hart nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

A long sigh rolled off his shoulders, and though not as strong as before, the smirk returned. “Well, there you have it. If Dru was pregnant, it would be with my kid. On the day she left me a note. The night before she disappeared. In a boat with holes in the bottom.”

“You have nothing but speculation as to what the doctor’s appointment yielded,” McGarry observed.

“Speculation can become fact with a simple phone call,” Angelus countered. “Dr. Rayne’s office is here in town. Call him in…and we’ll separate the speculation from the non-speculation.”

Despair was crushing. There was nothing now. No other option but to wait.

No other option. Calling in the doctor was the only way to put the truth of Drusilla’s death to rest.

And he would tell all. Everything.

And Buffy could do nothing but watch as her life fell down around her.

It was as William said that day in the parlor. The day Drusilla’s body surfaced.

She had won. Drusilla had won. She achieved everything she wanted the night William aimed the shotgun at her heart. Something had indeed been growing inside her. Mrs. Hart said it herself, and Mrs. Hart knew her better than anyone. Mrs. Hart knew she could not be tamed or weathered. Mrs. Hart knew.

Just as Drusilla had known—known exactly what words to say, what buttons to press, what would coax William from his shell and prompt warning into action. Manderley was all he had left, and she’d threatened to steal it as she’d stolen everything else. His freedom. His happiness. The promise and chance at love. She’d threatened to take it because she knew what he would do. The second her eyes landed on the shotgun, she’d seen her way out.

Cancer was, after all, a disease which would rob her of her freedom. If she persuaded William to destroy her before the illness did, she stood the chance of bringing him down in the process.

She almost succeeded. Almost.

No one objected when McGarry ruled the cause of death as suicide. None of her friends believed Drusilla would remain on the temporal plain after discovering what her future months had in store. Not even Mrs. Hart could fathom Drusilla bed-ridden and frail. She would want to destroy the island with speculation—cause a storm the likes of which had sunk her ship the night she drilled holes in its floor. Drusilla would have known what her suicide looked like. She would have known the chaos she would cause, even posthumously, with the mystery surrounding her affairs, her husband and his purported jealousy, and what he might do in a fit of rage.

Suicide, then. To spare herself a long, painful death. To torment William from the afterlife.

Only it wasn’t suicide. William knew that. Buffy knew that. But by the end of the day, she could have believed otherwise. It seemed decades had passed before she felt William’s arms around her again, his lips peppering kisses across her face, uncaring of the onlookers or the loud whispers. Uncaring of who saw them—two lovers distanced too long. Hours that felt like years. Buffy hadn’t been beside him then, but it wouldn’t be so ever again. Their future was now a lifetime. She would never leave his side.

No one saw Drusilla’s blood on his hands.

No one, for Buffy had washed him clean.

Author's Note: Thanks so much to dusty273 and spikeslovebite for looking over this for me.

The life of a sketchpad reminded her of a butterfly. In the beginning, it was unremarkable, lifeless though not without its potential. The beholder found value in its very existence; a fresh beginning, a new start. She loved the musty scent of an untouched canvas. Loved what it represented. Loved what it provided.

Loved the promise of hope.

The first strokes against the virgin parchment did nothing to rob it of its intrinsic beauty. Even as cream-colored sheets turned crisp with lines of charcoal, the thrill of creating something new overwhelmed her with its simple grace. Especially when her inspiration came in the form of her beautiful, naked husband.

Buffy smiled, running the end of her art pencil down her cheek. Her hair had grown longer over the past few months, falling now over her shoulders and curling at her waist. William preferred her hair long. He played with it for hours—curling it around his fingers, inhaling its scent, dragging it across his bare flesh…though there was little he didn’t delight in exploring. The first year of their marriage had washed away in a sea of passion since their whirlwind second honeymoon—a whirlwind that had yet to stop.

It was worth it. The stress of the past few months, the terror of the inquest, the dread which had threatened to rob her of her happiness the second she had William’s love locked safely in her heart. There were times when she had difficulty finding enough air to feed her lungs; now she was floating among the clouds. Watching the man she loved stand against the tide without batting an eye. Watching the rise of everything she held dear survive without succumbing to the fall.

Watching…

William.

It hadn’t been easy getting where they were. Getting to this modest hotel room in Florence, where the Duomo was visible across the hazy, yellow glow of Italian sunlight—no, the journey had nearly compromised the battle. After burying Drusilla, there had been the matter of dealing with Mrs. Hart. Dealing with her coldly, brutally, and in person.

With William at her side, Buffy had, at long last, confronted the old woman. Told her, in no uncertain terms, exactly how she felt.

“Ever since I set foot on Manderley, you have regarded me as something other than what I am. As something less than the mistress of this house, and given my initial fear of the position, that would have been understandable…were it not for the fact that you treated me as something less than a human being, as well.” Buffy had stood firm, ignoring the trembles seizing her insides and forcing all misgiving from her voice. Though she was still gaining her footing—her confidence—she knew she couldn’t have done it without William.

There was little she could have done without William.

“Manderley is not yours,” she had continued. There was no shame in admitting how much she had enjoyed the stark astonishment in Mrs. Hart’s eyes, as though the old woman hadn’t thought it possible for her position to ever be questioned. As though her lifeline at Manderley was indefinite, no matter what she did or who she hurt in the process.

“Mr. de Winter has never expressed dissatisfaction in my work.”

“That’s because my loving wife was too good to disclose your behavior,” William had all but snarled. “For what you pulled, you’re fortunate I don’t toss you down the bloody stairs.”

“I do not understand.”

“I don’t expect you would,” Buffy had coolly replied. “You don’t have the capacity to understand. You would have to be human first.”

Mrs. Hart had disappeared soon after, her quarters cleaned, Drusilla’s belongings in tow. William told Buffy it was grounds for pressing charges, and though he would have loved to pin something on Mrs. Hart, he couldn’t begrudge her for taking everything his demonic first wife had touched out of Manderley forever. For the first time, the manor felt whole—felt clean. Felt like it was truly hers. Truly theirs.

Manderley, however, was behind them. At least for now. Wesley, fresh off his honeymoon with Winifred, had agreed to serve as caretaker for the estate while William treated Buffy to the world. Since departing, Manderley hadn’t crept into their discussions; if William’s plans were indicative of anything, it would be at least another month before the familiar grounds of home were under her feet. Buffy wouldn’t admit to being homesick; home, for her, was at William’s side. And William wanted to show her everything. Wanted to show her as much of the world as he could—because she’d given it to him.

“This,” he’d whispered in Paris, their bodies dwarfed by the magnificent shadow of The Louvre, “is all because of you.”

“What?”

“You gave me this, darling.”

Buffy had grinned and swatted at him. “I can hardly afford the Mona Lisa. Besides, it’d be with your money.”

“Our money,” he’d corrected, stealing a kiss from her lips. “Everything I have is yours. You gave it to me.” His arm hooked around her middle, snuggling her closer. “You’re everything.”

“I suppose I could always steal it. It has a nasty habit of getting stolen.” Buffy’s grin had broadened. “Would you feel comfortable harboring a felon?”

“I’d harbor you anywhere you liked.”

Paris had been weeks ago. Now they were in Florence, in a room with a view of the Duomo. William was sprawled across the bed, his left hand resting against his abdomen and the back of his right hand pressed to his brow. He was a vision. Ruffled where he’d once been groomed. Wild where he’d once been proper. A passionate, eager lover where he’d once been contained. McGarry’s ruling at the inquest had not only put Drusilla to rest; it had provided the beast Buffy had unleashed with her uninhibited acceptance of his stormy past with a jolt of insatiable energy. He was alive in ways she’d never before seen and could hardy believe, even with her body aching with the evidence of his unquenchable hunger.

Hunger for her. He wanted her. Always. In places that made her blush. In ways that rendered her a blushing virgin with little more than a suggestive wink. Her skin burned from the path his lips had traveled. Her legs trembled when she tried to make them work as God intended. And though she was limp and drained from their lovemaking, she always wanted more. Always. She wanted what he did—to make up for the months during which they’d been together but not. During which they’d lived as husband and wife, but without this fiery zeal with every wake.

A sleepy yawn dragged her attention from the memory of William she’d transposed to paper. He blinked blearily, the hand at his stomach blindly searching the empty space beside him until his eyes locked with hers. A slow, predatory smile stretched his lips. One that had her insides tingling and her thighs clenching all at once. That grin would have her on her back with her legs in the air in careless seconds.

Once upon a time, Buffy would have thought herself quite the heathen. She could barely afford to care anymore.

Not now.

Not with William.

“Good mornin’,” he drawled rakishly, his voice rugged and tweaked with the hint of a lowerclass accent that admittedly sent ripples across her skin. “What are you doin’ all the way over there?”

Buffy’s eyes dropped shyly. “Drawing,” she replied.

“Anything special?”

“You.”

“Oh. While I sleep?” William grinned wickedly. “Pervy.”

She batted a hand, her cheeks warming. “You say that about everything I do.”

“Yeah, well, everything you do is pervy.” The twinkle in his eyes had the power to melt glaciers. “What are you wearing, anyway?”

“Nothing. A robe.” Buffy gestured to the closet. “It was hanging in there.”

“It’s hideous.”

“I’ll be sure to tell the staff.”

“In my opinion, you’re better off without it.” His grin stretched wider as he pulled himself onto his forearms, his unrepentant eyes roaming the length of her body as she rose to her feet. “God, I love your hair like that. You look so…like Eve. In the Garden.”

It still took courage to unwind her belt and bare her body to his hungry eyes, especially when the glow of morning light did little to hide the contours of her flesh. Intimacy with William had left every bit of her explored with his hands and tongue; there was nothing about her he hadn’t seen and touched. And even knowing that, she couldn’t help but blush when he drank her in. When his eyes fixated on her small breasts and he licked his lips as though anticipating tasting her nipples. She felt every inch of her flush red under his scrutiny, but he never made her feel awkward.

He made her feel like a goddess with a simple glance.

“Eve was docile,” Buffy observed softly.

“I don’t want you docile,” he countered, “I want you on fire. The image of Eve, the soul of a tigress.” His eyes dropped to her sketchpad. “Mind if I see my likeness? Did you draw my naughty bits?”

“They were under the blankets.”

William smirked, running his hand down his chest and bringing it to a halt right above the aforementioned naughty bits. “I’m sure you remember what they look like, love,” he drawled, leaning up and snatching her sketchpad away in a blink. “You spent a good time down there last night.”

If anything, the fire in her face only grew hotter. It was one thing to love him with her mouth; it was quite another thing to have her nightly deeds mentioned with the sun peeking over the horizon. “You’re wicked,” she muttered, though little could keep the smile from her face. Likewise, she couldn’t help the rush of empowerment that accompanied her self-consciousness upon puddling the robe around her feet. She was so different than she’d been just weeks before. New. Older, but not without her innocence.

“You love it.” William grinned at her a second longer before his eyes dropped to the drawing. Though his reactions were almost always identical, there was something so remarkably singular in watching the way his face softened and warmed all at once. As though he was entrusted with something precious. Something truly remarkable.

He studied the drawing for an eternity before meeting her eyes. “Buffy…”

“It’s not—”

“You did this just this morning?”

“You looked so wonderful. I wanted to remember it forever.”

William smiled tenderly, his eyes again dropping to her breasts. “I’m hardly wonderful, love. Whatever you see in me…you put it there. Everything you see is because of you. Buffy…” He set her sketchbook aside and reached for her, though she would have been in his embrace anyway. Her legs cast astride him, her entire self confined to his arms. She loved the feel of his heartbeat against her cheek. The way his arms folded around her. The way his breath wove through her hair. The way his fingers caressed her skin. She loved every second of it. She loved everything.

And somehow, apart from all the chaos, they’d landed in a haven of peace. Tranquility. This place so far from home, yet home all the same.

Home because they were together.

“Kiss me,” William whispered, confidence gone as though physical closeness allowed for honesty denied by distance. She heard him, then, as she’d heard him at Manderley. A man so magnificent. So unique. So thoroughly wonderful, even if his ghosts refused to fully let him sleep.

What peace freedom couldn’t give him, she hoped her lips could compensate. She kissed him softly at first, but this wasn’t the time for softness. Need ruled control and she soon found herself warring him for custody of his tongue, found her hands roaming the broad expanse of his shoulders before hooking around his neck, anchoring him into her. His taste was something to which she’d never grow accustomed. The way he purred and melted against her lips. The way he searched her mouth, tasting her, whimpering desperately as though he had never held her before. As though his body didn’t know hers, as though she had never felt the warmth of his arms. As though silken kisses had never been shared.

“Taste so good,” William murmured, his fingers sliding up her abdomen until her breasts filled his palms. The feel of his skin against hers made her insides sizzle, and then his thumbs found her nipples and rolled them into taut, needy peaks. “How did I find you?” he asked, dropping a kiss at the corner of her mouth before he began a southward venture. “Out of every corner of this miserable world, you were the one brightening—”

“You going to speak of how fortunate you are, again?” Buffy teased, though there was no hiding how her heart took off at a gallop the minute he began speaking of things she’d longed to hear.

William gazed upward slyly. “Don’t tell me you don’t love hearing it?” he retorted in the same manner, his tongue curling around one of her nipples. “Your body betrays you.”

“Damn my body.”

“No, no, no…” He licked her again and chuckled when she shivered and moaned. “No, darling, that’s my job. Damning you again, and again, and again…”

“William…”

His left hand found the appex of her thighs, fingers gliding deftly through her thatch of curls and parting her secret lips to rediscover her body’s secrets. “Heaven won’t have you after I’m done,” he whispered. “My wickedness will affect you, my love. All the nasty things—”

“Oh stop,” she berated softly. “I thought we agreed…”

“That you’re my salvation?”

“How can I, then, be damned if I am meant to save you?”

He grinned in a manner that was entirely wicked, though the lightness in his eyes could not be denied, no matter how fervently he believed it didn’t exist. “It’s paradoxical, isn’t it?” he whispered, his fingers slipping over her clitoris and rubbing her with such tenderness she nearly came apart then. “You’re light, I’m dark. Who corrupts who, do you think?”

“There is no corruption, Will.” It was amazing the words could ride out so evenly. Shards of ecstasy crashed through her tired body, ecstasy so potent she wondered how anyone, least of all herself, could contain it without exploding. The notion that she was built to experience and give this sort of pleasure made her head spin. Pleasure combined with happiness the storybooks couldn’t describe. Happiness that seemed to her too wonderful to be true, yet too grounded to be imagined.

They had fought for this and won. This morning was a celebration.

“No?” he asked. “No corruption? Even knowing…”

“Even knowing what, exactly?” Buffy stifled a gasp as two of his deliciously long fingers slipped inside her.

“What these hands have done.” His thumb remained on her slippery pearl, manipulating it in slow, tortuous circles. “What they’re capable of.”

She grinned at him and kissed his lips, keeping her eyes open and fixed on him. “I know precisely what they’re capable of,” she replied softly, rolling her hips to maneuver him into a gentle rhythm mimicking intercourse. “You do not frighten me. I love you. I love you.”

He growled his approval and quickly set to match her movements, hungry eyes devouring the sight of her quim swallowing his fingers again and again. “God, you’re glorious,” he rumbled, massaging her clitoris with fierceness that offset gentility. “So glorious.”

“Oh, Will…”

“Need to…need you.” In a blink, his hand was gone and her body strained in horrible limbo before she felt him pressing the head of his hard length against her opening. “Need…oh God, yes.”

Buffy sighed contentedly and leaned over him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her muscles flexing around him, tightening, drawing him in as deep as she could. Capturing him where she wanted him always.

“You’re magnificent,” he whispered. “So magnificent.”

She cupped his cheeks impulsively and kissed him. “Look at me. Stay.”

“Always.”

They began rocking together. Grinding together. Moving toward that luscious unknown. Flesh molded, connected, breaths mingled, eyes locked. And all she could think to say was, “Stay—stay with me.”

“Sweetheart…” His hands glided up her skin, slippery now with perspiration, until had her face captured between them. “There is nowhere else for me. Nowhere but you.”

She saw him. And believed.

“I love you,” William said, his eyes open and wide. Locked on hers. Always with her. Always. “Buffy, I love you so much.”

Grief had abandoned her. No more worries. No more suffocation. The tears she’d shed were behind her now. Only happy tears from now on. She loved and was loved.

And she believed.

Conclusive Note:

Admittedly, when I began toying with the idea in the fall of 2004 of putting my beloved Buffy and Spike into the position of the unnamed narrator and Mr. Maxim de Winter of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, I didn’t expect it to go as far as it did. I often entertain the notion of taking familiar storylines and fitting them to my favorite characters, but never before have these whims seized and held me so rigidly. The more I toyed with the idea, the more I liked it. The pieces seemed to fit, particularly the role of Rebecca being filled by Drusilla. However, the book is a literary work of art and I didn’t feel comfortable touching it. I wanted to play but on my own terms—I wanted the story to be mine, should I ever decide to partake. And perhaps the idea would have died a lonely death in Natchez, Mississippi, where, like so many of my ideas, it was born…had I not mentioned to Yani that I was contemplating a Spuffy AU based on a book I’d read. It is because of Yani that the idea did not die; an avid fan of AUs, she devoured Rebecca in much the same manner that I did, therein instigating what would become a three year campaign to get me writing the story, and then prodding me after I’d started writing to complete it.

I had four chapters of this story written two years prior to posting. And despite what I told Yani and myself, I never thought I’d finish it. Writing this story was a nonstop wrestling match. I have been in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer fandom now longer than I care to confess, and while I’ve encountered bouts with writer’s block as all writers inevitably do, I’ve never fought so rigidly with a story to make it work. All fanfic writers are borrowing someone else’s creation, and I’ve always been comfortable with that. However, taking a story I loved and characters I loved and putting them together in such a manner where my artistic input was almost nonexistent was beyond difficult. I wanted the story to be my own, but it never could be, because it was du Maurier’s. I was merely borrowing it, and this made writing very difficult. I wanted the story to be accurate, but not merely Rebecca with characters bearing different names. It wasn’t until I made the conscious decision to take the story in a direction that felt natural to me that I became comfortable enough to give it the attention it deserved. Though admittedly, even with all the reviews this story has accumulated; the nominations, awards, the emails, the demands for new chapters…none of that has ever felt like it belonged to me. I’m always eternally grateful for my readers and their enthusiasm, but I didn’t create the atmosphere that had them so fascinated: that was, again, property of Ms. du Maurier.

That being said, I have been so overwhelmed these past two years since I began posting the story with the response it has garnered. I’ve lost count of the readers who have told me they picked up Rebecca because they liked Tempesta. I can’t detail the number of times I’ve responded to a letter from a reader, or been overwhelmed at the review count at any of the sites at which I post. I’ve received letters from fans of the book who confessed they were at first resentful of my audacity, but ended up reading out of curiosity and determined I was paying an homage, rather than ripping off du Maurier’s work. Toward the end, despite all odds, it did feel like the story could, in its own way, belong to me. Not entirely—never entirely. Too much of what I wrote was stringently reliant on preexisting material, but there were moments between Buffy and William that were solely for me. Buffy’s relationship with Wesley was, likewise, solely for me, as was Wesley’s relationship, barely mentioned as it was, with Fred.

In the end, I owe the completion of this story entirely to Yani. Through all my struggles and subconscious forfeits, she pushed me back into the arena and demanded more. She talked me through my concerns, offered her enthusiasm and criticism. She didn’t let me forget Tempesta, and that’s why the finished product is as much hers as it is mine. Without her, my version of Rebecca would not exist. Tempesta di Amore is dedicated to her.

I would remiss if I didn’t include my litany of betas who have worked with me on this story. Mari, Tami, ElizaBuffy, Megan, Amy, Kimmie, and a few others who betaed for me back when the story was in its infancy—people who had never before betaed for me, people with whom I lost contact between the first few chapters and the rest of the story, which was truly instigated in 2006 after meeting with Yani at the Queen Mary James&Friends con. She’d visited me just the month before, of course, prepared to talk me into writing more of Tempesta when my life in fandom seemed particularly finite. By the time I saw her again, I was in a much better place and ready to write. The story did not take off, and there were long, grueling breaks during which my muse was content to play with plotlines that belonged to me rather than someone else, but Tempesta refused to wither away. I couldn’t let it, even though there were times I very much wished it would…though I can only now confess as much, since it’s complete.

Even toward the end, I doubted I would ever finish it. The story’s been with me for four years, and somehow I managed to get it written. Because of Yani, my betas, my readers…because of everyone. It’s not the longest thing I’ve ever written, but it was certainly the most difficult. Thank you all so much for your enthusiasm and persistence, for failing to give up on me even when it seemed updates were not forthcoming. Thank you for sticking with me these past couple years, for believing it would have a finale even when I could not.

And again, thank you, Yani. Thank you for pushing me to finish it. She’s all yours.

- Holly