Title: Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain   

Title: Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain 

Author: Angie, AKA Tanya Reed 

Rating: PG-13, I think, also a death fic warning, though not in the  

usual sense, for parts 3 & 7.  

genre: Gen 

Category: Romance 

Pairings: Ben/Meg 

Spoilers: Seeing is Believing, ATQH, Red, White or Blue 

Teaser: Who knows how many lives you've lived before? Who knows how  

many people from this life you knew then? One can never know...but  

one can always wonder. 

Disclaimer: Characters, setting, show: Not mine. Never mine.  

Never will be mine. But nobody said I couldn't play with them. 

notes: Thanks to Lisa for reading the whole thing as it was  

developing. Her comments were very encouraging and helped me not to  

give up. The story takes place sometime between Seeing is Believing  

and Perfect Strangers. Two of the scenes were actually researched,  

but the rest are mostly pure conjecture. Now, on to the story... Oh,  

oops, thanks to Fred Rose for writing the song that gave me the  

idea... 

Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain 

by Angie AKA Tanya Reed 

  "Love is like a dying ember  Only memories remain Through the ages I'll
remember Blue eyes crying in the rain..." 

  

	Inspector Meg Thatcher looked up from her paperwork as her  

constable entered. Fraser was immaculate as always, his handsome  

face showing the respect due her position. She especially liked the  

way his red serge draped his muscular frame. 

 "You wanted to see me, Inspector?" 

	"Yes, come in, Fraser. There is a matter we must discuss." 

	He gave a slight nod and came in the rest of the way. He closed
the  

door behind him, then stood in a stiff, respectful pose. 

	"I understand that you and Detective Vecchio have been off on  

another one of your adventures." 

	"Sir?" 

	"Something about missing cats?" 

	"Actually, it was lions, sir." 

	"Lions." 

	"Uh, yes, sir. You see, someone had kidnapped two of the lions
from  

the nearby zoo. They intended to..." 

 "That's enough, Fraser." She lifted a hand to stop the stream she  

knew was coming. 

 "Understood." 

 "Was it necessary to cause all of this damage in the pursuit of  

these...cats?" 

	"Well, sir..." 

	"Yes or no, Fraser." Sometimes he could be so exasperating.  

Getting a straight answer out of him was like pulling teeth. 

	"We needed..." 

 "Yes or no?" 

	He lowered his eyes. "No, ma'am." 

	His contrite voice made her automatically forgive him. Of course, 


she didn't show it. 

	"The Consulate will pay the damages this time, but next time,
you're	

on your own. Is this understood?" 

	"Yes, sir." 

	"Good. Dismissed." 

 He nodded in acknowledgment and turned to go. Meg appreciated the  

move as she watched him from her seat. How could a man be  

so...so...Fraser? 

 "Oh, and Fraser." Her mind had been so much on the damage costs  

plunked on her desk by Lt. Welsh that morning, among other things,  

that she had forgotten the real reason she had called Fraser into her  

office. 

 "Yes, sir?" He turned back around to face her, his beautiful blue  

eyes looking right into hers. 

	Meg froze as time stopped. 

	She felt herself gasp as something almost solid hit her in the
gut.  

The room began to waver and spin around her. She swayed, not hearing  

Fraser's alarmed question, as her hands felt around for something  

solid.	

 The only thing in the room that didn't seem to be moving was Fraser.  

 She peered at him, trying to get her bearings, and what she saw  

almost turned her blood to ice. It wasn't Fraser. Not *her* Fraser. 

 *Oh, God.* 

	It was his face, those eyes. They stared at her, calling out  

beseechingly. The anguish in them tore at her heart. 

 It was his body. Its stoic pose and self controlled features could  

belong to no one else. The rain fell around him, soaking him. It  

slicked his hair and his clothes to his skin. The rain was cold.  

She could feel the coldness as it dripped down her face as well as  

his. It ran down his cheekbones endearingly. How she wanted to go  

to him. 

	The water on his face was not only rain. The realization that he  

was crying shook her to her core. Teardrops mixed with the rain  

running down his face. The pain in his eyes, she was causing it.  

She'd give anything to stop it, if she just knew how. She wanted to  

reach out to him, to comfort his hurt. Slowly, she lifted her arm  

towards him. 

 Then, the flash was gone. As if from far away, she heard  

Fraser--the real Fraser--speaking, but she couldn't understand what  

he was saying. 

 "Wh...what?" 

	"Are you all right, sir?" In a moment, he was there by her side. 

 Meg groped for her chair, blinking. "Fraser?" 

 "Yes, sir. Do you need assistance?" 

 His hand was a steadying presence on her elbow. How long had that  

been there? She wanted to lean on him for an instant, but she  

quelled that impulse. 

	"No...no, Constable. I'm fine." 

 Still, he did not let go of her arm until she was comfortably in  

her seat. As she looked at him, still blinking rapidly, she thought  

she could see concern in his eyes. 

 "That will be all, Fraser. I'm not a child." 

	"No, sir." 

	He seemed to believe her on this count at least. She waved her
hand  

impatiently. "You may go." 

	"Understood." 

 After giving her one more searching look, he turned on his heels and  

left. Meg watched him go, and it was all she could do to keep her  

mouth from gaping. 

	What the hell was that? *** 

It was later that day when Meg, almost recovered from her flash of  

*something* heard a knock on her door. Quickly, she ripped the	

glasses from her face, shoving them in a drawer, and turned from her  

computer. She ran a hand quickly through her short hair to be on the  

safe side, then said, "Come in." 

 A pretty dark face peeked around the door. "You home?" 

	Meg rolled her eyes. "If I wasn't home, Francesca, would I have  

said come in?" 

	"You never know, it could be some Canadian thing." 

 She came in and shut the door behind her. Languidly, she moved  

across the room. Meg noticed her shirt was so short that her abdomen  

was exposed and her jeans were so tight they could have been painted  

on.  

 "So, are you done?" Frannie asked, unceremoniously plunking herself  

down on Meg's desk. 

 "Sword of Desire?" 

 A nod. "Sword of Desire." 

	"You do realize, I don't usually read this type of book..." 

	"Nah," Frannie said with understanding. 

 "...But you made it sound so interesting. I wanted to know what  

happened to the pool boy," She waved her hand," English lord." 

 "So, did you finish it?" 

 "Yesterday. What was with that ending?" 

 "I know." Frannie sighed. "How could he go back to England and not  

take her with him? I was so mad. And it was such a great book." 

 "Maybe she'll write a sequel." 

	"I hope so. I hate sad endings." 

	Meg studied the woman sitting on her desk, now looking a little
down  

cast. There was no one else in the world she could imagine herself  

having so little in common with. Not to mention they were both	

attracted to the same man. By all rights, the two of them should be  

indifferent to each other, if not enemies. The funny thing was, Meg  

liked Francesca Vecchio, and the spicy Italian seemed to like her.  

They had worked on a case together about a month before and, despite  

their different backgrounds, for a moment they had shared a vision.  

Afterwards, Meg had asked to borrow the book that had started it all  

and suddenly--to both of their surprise--they found themselves	

friends. Meg couldn't believe that the first *real* friend she had  

made in Chicago (not counting Fraser, of course, but he didn't know  

that she considered him a good friend) was someone like Frannie. She  

had been shopping more times in the past month than she had since  

moving to Chicago. 

 Her mind going back to the book, Meg reached into the deepest drawer  

in her desk. She searched under all of the papers and folders she  

had piled on top, finally coming up with Sword of Desire. Two sets  

of dark eyes glanced at the cover and they sighed as one. There, the  

pool boy and his lover sat curled together in passion. He was buff 

and young with long, flowing hair, but each of them saw a handsome,  

soft spoken Mountie there instead. 

 "So," Frannie asked, burying the book in her purse. "What are you  

doing this afternoon?" 

	"Working, Francesca, as you should be." 

	"Come on. You're the boss. Take some time off." 

	"If you'll remember correctly, the last time you said that, we
ended  

up being gone for five hours. Turnbull was ready to call out the  

hounds. Lieutenant Welsh almost fired you." 

 "But we had fun, didn't we?" 

 "Well, I suppose," Meg admitted. "I'm a little busy here, but I  

wouldn't say no to ordering Chinese. Are you hungry?" 

 Frannie smiled warmly. "Sure, I could eat. Will...uh...will Fraser  

be by this afternoon?" 

 Meg gave her a soft, rare smile. She completely understood where  

Frannie was coming from. "Actually, I think he's out with your	

'brother' somewhere. He spends more time at your job than he does at  

his." 

 "Good for me." 

	"Indeed." 

	Meg picked up the phone and ordered the Chinese food, while  

Francesca found the rarely used second chair and pulled it up to her  

desk. 

	"You know, Meg, I really like those green curtains. They go really
 

well with the room." 

 "I like them too." She didn't mention that she had discounted them  

until Fraser told her they matched her eyes. 

	"You strike me more as the type who would prefer red or blue over 


green." 

 "I usually do." 

	"Oh! I almost forgot. I brought you another book." 

	"Another book?" 

	"Yes. It's called Date with Destiny." 

 "But, Francesca, I don't like..." 

 Frannie drew her brows together and waved a hand. "Now don't give  

me that crap. I know a romantic heart beats in that chest of yours,  

Meg Thatcher, I've seen it for myself. Don't you deny it. And you  

enjoyed Sword of Desire. You'll enjoy Date with Destiny too, and  

you're going to read it, capiche?" 

 Meg gave a short nod. 

 "Good. It's about this woman who sees this man everywhere. She  

hates him...or at least thinks she does, but every time she turns  

around, there he is. Okay, so she moves to this town and low and  

behold--there he is! There is just no way she can get away from this  

guy." 

	"Did she try a restraining order?" 

	Frannie gave her a stern look. "Just read the book." 

 She handed it over the desk and Meg took it, quickly hiding it from  

view. She would read it, yes, but she wouldn't promise to enjoy it. 

 "The idea of two people destined to be together...it just gives me  

shivers." 

	"There's no such thing as fate, only achievements and mistakes." 

	"My God, Meg. You are so cynical." 

	"Not cynicism--reality. There's no..." As Meg was about to launch 


into a speech on practicality, her mind flashed back to what had  

happened to her that morning. there was no rational explanation for  

it, but it *had* happened. She had seen... 

 "Meg?...Meg?...Inspector Thatcher?" 

 "I'm sorry, Francesca...Can I confide in you?" 

 Frannie shrugged. "Sure. Blow." 

	"What?" 

 The dark Italian rolled her hand. "You know go." 

	Meg drew her brow together in puzzlement. "Do you mean shoot?" 

	"Whatever. Unburden your soul." 

	"Something strange happened to me this morning." Meg got up and  

began to pace. "I'm not one to speak about my personal life, but  

this really shook me." She turned to see Frannie raise her eyebrows  

at her. "Yes, I can be shaken up. I'm not the Ice Queen that Ray  

seems to think I am..." 

	"You know about that?" 

	"I do have ears, Frannie. Anyway, it was so strange. I was talking
 

to Constable Fraser when it happened..." 

 She could tell Frannie was immediately enthralled. "What? What  

happened?" 

	"You're going to think I'm crazy." 

	"No, I won't. I swear." Frannie put one hand on her heart and one 


in the air.  

	"I saw...I don't even know what I saw." Meg started pacing again. 


"It was like someone had taken a photograph--no, not eve a  

photograph, it was too real. It was like someone had taken another  

Constable Fraser and put him over top of our Fraser. I saw him, but  

it wasn't him. It was like a...um...memory of him. I don't know how  

else to explain it." 

 "Wow. What was he doing?" 

	"He was standing in the rain." She didn't tell her that Fraser had
 

been crying. 

	"That's amazing. What do you think it means?" 

	"Too much work, not enough sleep?" 

	"No, Meg. It must mean something. Maybe you know Fraser from  

before." 

	"What do you mean?" 

 "Like a past life or something." 

 "Don't be ridiculous." 

	"No, don't you see? It fits." 

	"Francesca, I believe in previous lives about as much as I believe
 

in destiny." 

 "You live a sorry little life, don't you?" 

 Meg was hurt. "There's no need to insult me." 

 Frannie was passed it already. "I wonder how you knew Fraser  

before. I wonder if *I* was there. This is so cool." 

 "Can we just change the subject, please? I feel like a moron."  

There was a knock on the door. "That must be our Chinese." *** 

August 24, 0079 

  

"It's time," Benton said seriously, turning from the window. 

 Behind him, looking at him expectantly, were his wife, their two  

sons, and their servants Ray and Frannie. Complete trust was in  

their faces, and somehow he had to find a way to protect them. 

	"What's out there, Benton?" Margaret asked, coming forward. 

	He weighed his answer in his mind and decided that straightforward
 

honesty was always the best way to go with her. Nervously, he ran a  

finger along his eyebrow. 

	"It's like twilight out there. There's no sign of the sun." 

	Fear came to her dark eyes, but her face never showed it. Instead,
 

in her capable way, she clapped her hands and said, "All right,  

children, we're going on an adventure. We must see how fast we can  

leave the town. Ray, Frannie, please find us provisions for our  

journey. Be quick." 

	The servants, more like members of the family than menials,
quickly  

nodded and got to work. Benton watched his wife kneel by the boys  

and talk and laugh with them as if this may not be the end of the  

world. A fierce pride joined the protectiveness within him. He had  

been so lonely for so long and now this little family of six belonged  

to him. 

	It took the twins, Ray and Frannie, only a few moments to gather  

enough provisions for a couple of days. Without waiting, Benton sent  

them out, then the boys holding hands, and lastly, Margaret and  

himself. He could feel Margaret's hand trembling in his, though when  

she turned her face to him it had a soft smile. In the	

semi-darkness, he studied her, remembering all the joy she had	

brought him. His wife was ice and fire, calm and storm, love and  

laughter. And she had given him his sons. 

 He could see them in front, chubby legs walking happily along. They  

did not seem frightened. A year apart, their personalities could  

not be more different. Antonius was a raging river, pushing forward  

and testing his limits; Markus was more content to follow his brother  

and try to keep him from harm. Together they made a joyous chorus  

and Benton could not remember his life before them. 

 Gently, Benton pulled Margaret towards him. Normally not one for  

showing affection outside of their home, now he felt the need to have  

her close. Her whole body, like her hand, was trembling. At his  

touch, she wrapped an arm around him, and he couldn't help but speak. 

	"I love you, Meggie. If we don't get out of this, I just wanted
you  

to know." 

	Warmth shone out of her face as she raised it to look in his eyes.
 

"You are my life, Benton." 

 He was stunned for a moment at such a sentimental thing coming from  

her lips. Of the two of them, Margaret was the most practical. Much  

like their children, their personalities complimented each other. 

	A sound of laughter came from the children and the couple shared a
 

squeeze. It was hard to believe that anything bad could happen when  

the world contained sounds like that. 

	Frannie turned. "Hurry, children." 

	They began to trot to keep up. She had been their nanny since
birth  

and was second in authority only to Mama. Even Papa had to take a  

third seat. 

	Benton was studying Frannie when he saw it. All hint of smile was 


driven from his face, and his arm tightened on Margaret. It was she  

who yelled, "Ray! Frannie!" 

	They saw a big, black cloud racing towards them. As Ben watched
it,  

he knew it was the jaws of death itself. His stomach churned, and he  

stopped. Fleeing would do them no good. It was too late. 

	The cloud hit them like a wave, covering their bodies. Benton  

gasped as it touched his face, entering his nose and mouth. It was  

thick. He tried scraping it away, but more rushed into the empty  

places. It was so heavy, it pushed on him, and he could feel  

Margaret faltering at his side. She tried to push forward, out of  

the cloud, and Benton would have followed her, but already the weight  

of the ash was crushing them to the ground. 

 Margaret fell first, pulling him heavily with her. His lungs were  

just starting to burn from loss of oxygen. He felt Margaret  

struggling violently to rise, to breath. Benton didn't struggle.  

Instead, he trapped her arms with his own and settled in close to  

her. There was a pause in her struggles, and Benton felt around  

until he found her face. Gently, he pressed his lips to hers and, in  

that last moment of life, he kissed her. ****** 

September 19, 0603 

  

 Margaret stared gloomily out of the carriage window. She didn't  

care if the scenery was beautiful and that she had left all that was  

familiar to her over an hour before. The clomping of the horses'  

hooves should have been soothing, but it wasn't. Instead, they	

seemed like some big gong, tolling out the last minutes of her life.  

Margaret's life was over. 

 Angrily, she dashed away the tears that came to her eyes with a  

dainty white knuckle. 

 "You will not break down," she muttered darkly. "You will meet this  

with strength and pride. You will look on his face and not shudder.  

You will pretend that you do not know that this man bought you for a  

brood mare." 

	Gritting her teeth, she stared out at the sky defiantly, as if it 


had been the one who traded her away like a sack of potatoes, and not  

her own father. How she hated him at this moment. 

	Being angry helped the fear. 

 Margaret caught that thought going through her mind and grabbed it.  

Carefully, she examined it from all sides. Was she afraid? Yes, she  

was terrified. It was a new feeling for her; she prided herself on  

being able to handle any situation. But this...Thinking of what was  

waiting for her at the end of this ride made her heart pound loudly  

in her chest. This was barbaric. What had possessed her father to  

get together with some old crone and decide that Margaret should  

marry her son? 

	It wouldn't be so bad if she had met the man before, but no. Her  

father had met his mother at some party thing, and they had hit it  

off. After two hours of talking, Margaret was engaged--and she	

wasn't even there. 

	Anger burned in her and she let it. Maybe it would completely  

consume the fear. What did she know about this man--this Benton that  

she didn't even know the last name of? Was he young? Probably not.  

It was the old ones who were always shopping for a wife, the ones who  

couldn't find one for some reason when they were young. 

	Well, Margaret thought charitably, there were worse things than  

being old. Her thoughts went to her friend Mary. She had been  

married less than two years and had two children. Where she had once  

been plump with laughing eyes, she now was pale and thin. The only  

emotion in her eyes was a bone weary tiredness that tore at  

Margaret's heart--and then there were the bruises. 

	She shuddered. Would Benton be like that? Cruel and brutal? Would 


she have to wear long sleeved dresses with unusually high collars? 

 There was old and there was cruel, but there was also isolated.  

What if she married a man who ignored her except when he wanted  

to...wanted to...She repressed another shudder.  

	Yes, truly, her life was over. 

 Her thoughts were interrupted by the jarring of the carriage as it  

slowed down. Margaret knew what expression she had on her face, so  

she took a couple of deep breaths and smoothed her features. Slowly,  

every sign of the feelings inside her chest had disappeared. By the  

time the carriage stopped and the door opened, she had an air of  

elegant calm. 

	On the other side of the door was a young man, not much older than
 

Margaret herself. Dressed in working clothes, he had a face that  

could make women faint. Even Margaret felt herself warm enough to  

flush slightly. He smiled up at her, his eyes a deep, clear blue.  

She saw kindness in those eyes. Immediately, she trusted him. 

 "Margaret?" he asked softly, his voice like no man's voice she had  

ever heard. 

	"Yes," she replied, taking his hand and allowing him to help her  

down. His hand was warm and caused a pleasant tingle in her skin. 

 He let go of her hand to watch the driver steer the team into the  

barn, then turned to her once more. "Did you have a pleasant  

journey, ma'am?" 

	Margaret felt herself smile at him. A rebellious thought ran  

through her head. *If my future husband keeps this man around, it  

might not be as bad here as I thought.* She squelched it, but not  

the positive thought that *this* man would never hit a woman. 

 "Yes, quite, thank you." 

	"I'm glad, he answered, studying her face. 

	She found herself blurting, "I lied." 

	Amusement tinged the blueness of his eyes. "Was the driver a
little	

rough then?" 

	"No. No. He was fine." Margaret dismissed this with a wave of her 


hand. 

	"May I walk you to the main house?" At her nod, they began walking
 

and he continued, "Then what was the problem?"	

 It was her turn to search his face. There was something about him  

that she trusted, an open honesty that she had never seen before. 

 "You won't tell?" 

	He gave a slight shake of his head. "Of course not." 

	She believed him. "I'm a little...um...nervous about  

meeting...well, you know, him. What's he like?" 

	A puzzled look went over the servant's face. "By him, you
mean...?" 

	"The man of the house." 

	"Ah." 

 She waited for a moment and, when he did not answer, she prodded,  

"Well?" 

	"He's average looking...tries to do what's best....loves his  

mother...not very good with women most of the time, though. Rather  

shy when they..." He coughed, "...assert themselves." 

	"You like him?" 

	"Well, I'd have to say yes, most of the time." 

	Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad. I was afraid	

he'd be horrible. No offense." 

	"None taken. But if you felt this way, why did you agree to marry 


him, if you don't mind me asking?" 

	"Well," She knew that it was none of his business, and that she  

should not speak of it, but her only friend had been Mary. With her  

gone, Margaret had had no one to tell her fears to. Making a  

decision, she continued, "I didn't have a choice. My father made the  

decision." 

 He drew his brows together in a frown--a rather endearing frown, she  

noted, "And you just went along with it?" 

 She snorted. "Are you kidding? I told him..." She stopped. She  

could not tell this man the things she had said, they were definitely  

not things she wanted people, him especially, to know had come from  

her mouth. "...I told him that it wasn't right not to consult me."  

Then she shrugged. "But he's my father. What could I do?" 

 "I know...um...Benton agreed to this because..." He cleared his  

throat, looking away from her, "...because his mother asked. She is  

not well and wants to see him settled before she dies. I'm sure if  

he would have known..." 

	"You think *he* would have cared about what I thought when my own 


father didn't?" 

	"Yes." 

	Margaret stopped walking and put her hand on his arm. It was firm 


and browned from being in the sun. "You know, I never even asked your  

name." 

	When he faced her, his cheeks and neck started to flush. She read 


an apology in his eyes. 

 "My name is Benton." 

 Shock made Margaret completely freeze for a moment. After that, she  

wanted to turn and run. In horror, she ripped her hand from his arm. 

 "What? Why didn't you tell me?" 

	"I'm sorry. I thought you knew." 

	She turned her back to him, rubbing her forehead. "Do you think I 


would have said those things if I knew?" 

	"By the time I figured out you didn't, it was too late. Please	

forgive me, Meggie. I'll send you home if you want. I didn't know  

you hated the idea of marrying me." 

	He took her shoulders in his hands and made her face him. She  

didn't put up a struggle, as something he had said took her breath.  

 "What did you call me?" 

 "Meggie? I'm sorry. It just...it just came out." 

	"Stop apologizing," she ordered, then softened at his hurt look.  

"My mother used to call me Meggie. She and my newborn sister died  

when I was seven. Nobody's called me that since." 

 "I won't call you that again." 

	She bit her lip and something made her say, "But I want you to." 

	The sad look on his face began to brighten a little. "You do?" 

 "Yes." She was sure now. Sure of everything. She had met her  

dragon and he turned out to have soft teeth. "And Benton, please  

don't make me go back." 

 "What?" His eyes widened. 

	"My father...my father, he doesn't love me, and I think...I  

think..." She felt herself blushing. 

	"You think what?" 

 "I think that I could love you." 

 "You do? But what about..." 

	His voice trailed off as she leaned forward and took him in her  

arms. Strength radiated from him, strength of body and strength of  

character. Margaret knew that in him she had found a rare, precious  

thing, and she wasn't letting go. 

 "I *am* going to love you." **** 

October 28, 1134 

  

Her eyes. That's what it was. They were the color of newly turned  

earth, with flecks of goldenrod and hints of spring growth. He had  

never seen eyes like that, eyes that could wrap a man in sweet	

enchantment. 

 The first time he saw them, he was lost. He remembered it now, as  

the cool night air brushed his skin. Was it only three months ago?  

Could a person's life be so changed in such a short time? 

 Benton and his father had made the trip from their own kingdom to  

honor the newly crowned King Samuel. The ceremony had been boring  

for Prince Benton, who--despite his high birth--preferred the company  

of his horse and hounds and the trees to the intrigue of his father's  

court. 

	After the ceremony, Benton was led into the spacious ballroom. He 


noticed the daughters of various nobles eyeing him, but he was just  

uncomfortable and wanted to go home. His brother Stanley lapped up  

the attention, and after depositing several women on the blond	

prince's arm, Benton snuck away to sit in the corner. 

	He watched the festivities warily, noting that all princesses and 


ladies seemed to look alike. A slight frown furrowed his brow and  

disappeared. There were blonds, brunettes, and red heads; they came  

in all shapes and sizes. Benton couldn't figure out what it was that  

gave him the feeling of *sameness*. Stanley didn't seem to mind, as  

everytime he went by there was another woman in his arms. 

	Prince Benton was just trying to think of a way to excuse himself 


when he saw her. She came into the room gracefully, arm in arm with  

an older man. Benton barely saw him, he was too busy staring at the  

dark haired angel at his side. She was the picture of elegance. Her  

dress was blood red--she must be of quite high rank, he thought, to  

pull off that bold color--and the effect it made against her pale  

skin and raven hair was enchanting. Everything about her screamed  

lady, but Prince Benton had to give a soft smile. He believed she  

had a sun burn on her nose. 

 "Who is that?" Prince Benton turned to the minor earl who had taken  

refuge beside him. 

 "Who?...Oh, that's King Samuel's youngest daughter, Margaret. She  

does clean up rather well, doesn't she? They say she spends her days  

riding horses and practicing sword drills like a man. I'm sure that  

kind of foolishness will stop, though, as soon as she marries Duke  

Raymond." 

 Prince Benton absorbed the information and watched as the man at  

Princess Margaret's side was called away. He got to his feet  

confidently but, before he had even taken a step, nervousness and  

shyness overtook him. What could he say to that beautiful creature? 

 Quickly, before he lost his nerve, he moved across the floor and to  

her side. He gently cleared his throat, and she turned.  

 Her beauty was even more amazing close up. Almost, he forgot how to  

speak. Dark eyes, flecked with green and gold, looked at him  

questioningly. 

 "Uh...um...hello...My name is Benton...Excuse me...Prince Benton.  

King Emerson is my father...You are...You are Princess Margaret?" 

 Her eyes swept over him and he hoped he passed inspection. 

 "Prince Benton, you do know I am engaged?" 

	"Yes, ma'am, but I didn't think one dance could hurt...um...What I
 

mean to say is, would you like to dance?" 

 The princess gave him a soft smile, but he saw laughter sparkling in  

her eyes. She nodded and offered her hand to him. 

 As they came together, he noticed that she was petite but strong.  

Her hands were gentle, but there was a fierce wildness in her eyes.  

She, of all the women in the room, was unique. 

 "So...you are engaged?" 

	"Yes, to my father's friend. He's a nice man." 

 "When...?" 

	"A year from now. My father wishes me to wait until I am eighteen.
 

It's a shame he's out of daughters, I'm sure he'd think you or your  

brother was a good catch." 

 Prince Benton reddened. "Father is looking for a suitable match for  

Stanley. He feels I am too young." 

	"Too young? You must be older than I." 

	"Nineteen last birthday, ma'am. May I say, you dance very
lightly." 

 It was her turn to color and break eye contact. They danced in  

silence for awhile, Benton noticing that she had an enticing scent. 

 "Are you to be at the castle long?" Margaret asked eventually. 

	"My father plans on staying for about six months. He believes that
 

a suitable match for my brother could be here." 

	"Well, Prince Stanley does seem to be looking." 

	Benton gave her an amused smile, just as the song was ending. He  

stepped away and bowed his most princely bow. 

 "It's been a pleasure, Princess Margaret. If, in the days to come,  

you find yourself without a companion, I would be glad to do the  

honors." 

 Her eyes sparkled once more as she curtsied and said, "I just may do  

that, Prince Benton." 

	That was all it took, Benton thought, pulling his mind back to the
 

present and blowing on his fingers. Where was that girl? What if  

she had changed her mind? The thought of that turned his blood to  

ice. Marrying Raymond might actually be better for her. She would  

have everything she wanted, things she wouldn't have as a runaway.  

Benton knew that he was no prize and could see where Meggie might opt  

for stability. His heart begged her not to. 

	The months he had known her, his whole life had altered. Never	

before had he thought he could find someone who enjoyed the things  

that he did. Instead of complaining, like his parents, when he spent  

all day in the woods, she joined him. Since the ball, they had been  

constant companions, sharing in a way Benton thought he never could. 

 "Ben?" came a whisper, so soft he almost didn't hear it. 

	Benton peered through the trees. He couldn't see anything.  

"Meggie?" 

	There was sound then, the snapping of twigs, the brush of cloth  

against bark. He held his breath, waiting. When she appeared, he  

could not resist sweeping her into his arms and kissing her face and  

neck. 

 "Meggie, Meggie, you came!" 

	"Of course I came, you moron," she laughed. "I love you. Did you  

bring the horses?" 

 "Yes." Then, after a pause. "Are you sure about this, dearheart?" 

 "About what?" 

 Benton indicated the horses and himself with a hand. Margaret drew  

her brows together.  

 "How could I not be sure?" 

 "Think about what you're leaving behind," he said softly. 

 "But I'm gaining *you*. Your blue, blue eyes. Your kindness. Your  

generosity. Your gentleness. Your love. Oh, Ben, how can I weigh  

any of it against that?" 

	He reached out and stroked her face tenderly, hardly believing how
 

his life had worked out. He had her, his Meggie, forever. The  

realization made his heart fill. Happiness made him grab her up  

again kissing her until they were both breathless. Before that	

moment, he had not believed that a level of happiness so profound  

was possible. Now he knew, and he knew that it was his every moment  

that he had her. ******** 

December 9, 1724 

  

Benton Montgomery stared out of the window into the cold New England  

winter. Snow was falling gently from the sky, covering the ground  

with a sprinkling much like that in his hair. He was an old man, and  

he felt every year of it. The pain in his knees, the wrinkles on his  

face, the wandering of his mind, all these tended to remind him.  

However, Benton did not fear death, he welcomed it. 

	This thought almost made him smile as his gaze turned to the sky. 


It had been a long time since he had smiled. Thirty five years this  

coming summer. His once sharp mind was annoying in the keeping of  

that detail.  

	His questing gaze picked out a star--the only one visible on this 


snowy night. It burned brightly and seemed to call to him. It had  

been so long, so very long. 

	Sometimes, like today, Benton couldn't remember what the date was,
 

or where he was born, or what his dog's name was, but always he  

remembered her. Meg. 

	Meg the beautiful; Meg the fiery; Meg the enchanting. Meg of the  

deep brown eyes; Meg of the sultry laugh; Meg of the gentle hands.  

Once more anger and hatred gripped his gut, and he was too old to  

remember why he had kept it hidden so long ago. Now, every night, he  

sat at the window and cried for her, for the love that did not die on  

that day. 

	Meg had been intelligent, she wanted to learn everything. She did 


not believe that women had weak minds and bodies, only that society  

had forced them to think so. Her fiery, proud nature had made her  

refuse suitor after suitor and, in a scandalizing move, decide to  

live by herself in her parents little cottage. Her soft heart made  

her take in anything hurt and alone and frightened. That is how  

Benton had met her. 

	He had been out in the woods--hunting rabbits, he believed. That  

part was fuzzy. There was a fall, a terrible fall, and he lost	

consciousness. He remembered waking up in a bed, warm and feeling  

more safe than he ever had in his life. Opening his eyes, he saw a  

concerned face looking down at him. He fell in love with that face  

immediately. She was absolutely beautiful, with pale skin and eyes  

that he could drown in. 

	She asked if he was all right, if he could remember who he was,
and  

she told him he would have to stay with her until he was well. Those  

were the happiest three months of his life. 

	Eventually, though, both of them had to admit that under her  

knowledgeable administrations he had grown fit once more. He had to  

leave her and go home. Benton balked at the thought but Meg, she had  

insisted. She forced him to go, and when he tried to show her how he  

felt, she turned her back on him. It broke his heart, but he was  

determined to someday prove his love to her. And that someday might  

have come, if not for... 

	Benton closed his eyes and lay his head on the windowsill, letting
 

the coolness ease his blazing cheeks. He could feel the tears  

coming, and he did not try to stop them. It had taken a long time  

for him to be able to cry. 

	He had been sitting in his livingroom on that fateful day--not
this  

livingroom, he had sold that house long ago--reading, one of his many  

dogs at his feet. Hearing a noise, he drew his brows together in a  

frown.	

	"What could that be?" he asked the dog, but she didn't reply. 

 Putting a piece of paper in his book to mark the place, Benton got  

up and went to the window. Moving the curtain, he peered outside to  

see several people gathered in the street. His frown deepened as he  

heard angry murmuring come from them. Moving to the front of the  

house, he opened the door so her could hear what was being said. 

 His ears were exceptional, but with everyone talking at once, there  

was only one word he could catch, repeated over and over. 

	"...witch..." 

	Benton rubbed his eyebrow with a knuckle. He had seen a witch hunt
 

before. It was not pretty. Somehow, people who claimed to be  

completely logical lost control at the mere thought of magic. He  

wondered what poor soul they were going to kill this time. 

 Then a whispered name reached his ears, and his blood ran cold.  

Meg! 

	All calmness in Benton vanished as he ran to get his coat. Maybe, 


maybe if he was quick, he could warn his love in time. He fairly  

flew through the trees, Tucker at his heels. 

	As he approached her cabin, he saw a crowd of people surrounding
it.  

 Some had torches, others pitchforks or knives. 

	"Meg!" he cried as he saw two men dragging his dear savior out of 


her home, a home that was already aflame. They were rough with her,  

but she walked proudly between them, her head held high. 

	*They think Meggie's a witch; they think Meggie's a witch* kept  

running through Benton's mind as he took in the fact that her wrists  

were scratched and bleeding from the ropes her captors had put around  

them. 

	The people nearby began to shout obscenities. Benton winced and  

then felt a knot of anger as they began spitting and throwing  

things--vegetables, stones, branches. Meg couldn't even wipe the  

spit from her face. 

	"It's time for your test," one of the men said, pulling her along
by  

the hair. 

	"No. Stop." Benton found his voice and tried to push his way  

through the mob.  

	They pushed back. He struggled, desperately trying to reach Meg.  

As the crows moved, he was swept along with them. 

	A chant started to vibrate around him. Benton gritted his teeth,  

not giving up the struggle. 

	"Witch...witch...witch...witch..." 

	Each time they said the word, it was like a brand being pressed to
 

his heart. In his mind, he saw all the good that Meggie had done.  

He thought of all the love he had for her but had decided to wait to  

express. He refused to let her die before he could tell her. 

	A flash of color through the crowd caught his eye. Tucker. The dog
 

was weaving through legs and weapons at a frantic rate. For the  

first time, Benton began to have some hope. 

	He saw Tucker lunge at the man holding Meggie. The man yelled,	

trying to beat the dog off. Another man moved to help his friend.  

Meg pushed away and it looked like she was going to break  

free--until someone else moved forward and hit her with a hoe.	

Benton screamed her name again as she fell heavily to the dirt. The  

triumphant woman who had hit her grinned in satisfaction, a zealous  

glint in her eyes. 

	His mind was so intent on Meggie, he almost didn't hear Tucker's  

yelp as she was violently pushed away. Part of him hoped she was all  

right, but most of him was lying on the ground with the woman he  

loved. 

	"...we won't even have to tie her. Just hold her under..." 

	"...if she awakens..." 

	"...work magic unconscious?" 

	Finally Benton managed to wedge himself in between the people in  

front of him. Wriggling, he moved forward slowly until eventually he  

was on the edge of the crowd, which was moving towards the river. 

	"Stop it," he called. "This is foolishness. You're trying to kill 


an innocent girl." 

	The man who had scooped up Meg, a man Benton had known all of his 


life, turned. 

	"Go home, Benton. You can't save everyone. This here girl is a	

witch. We have to stop what's been going on around here--sickness  

and death." 

	"It's been a bad year, but that's no reason to kill Margaret
Bain." 

 The man nodded to the people standing on either side of Benton and  

he felt his arms being gripped tightly from either side. He  

struggled to break free, but the hands got tighter. 

	"Let me go," he said calmly. 

	"Take Benton home. He doesn't understand the seriousness of what's
 

going on here, like when he hid that escaped murderer last year..." 

	"Jim was innocent." 

	This got him a pitying look. "Well, a jury hung and convicted
him."  

	Then he nodded. 

	Benton found himself being dragged backwards-- away from Meggie.  

All of his struggles and cries were unsuccessful in both freeing  

himself and getting them to free her. 

	His last glimpse of her was a large man tightly tying her to a
huge  

post. He knew what would come next. His mind numbed a the thought  

of them plunging a helpless Meg under the water until she drowned. 

	He cried out her name one more time, hoping she could hear him,
then  

settled into the hands that were holding him. He knew that, for the  

rest of his life, the image of her limp form would haunt him. He  

would never sleep again. ********** 

December 27, 1392 

  

 The visit had been too short. 

 Benton Smythe thought this, but did not voice it as he and his wife  

followed the others to the door. His eyes lingered on his daughter  

Margaret, named for her mother. She was a pretty young woman,  

receiving most of her features from Benton's wife, but her eyes were  

blue instead of that wonderful shade somewhere between brown and  

hazel. She also had happy eyes, something Benton was grateful for.  

When she looked at her husband and their three children, love shone  

from her face. Benton was glad that Meg had insisted their daughter  

marry for love. 

 Rachel, Elizabeth, and Harold were clinging to their grandmother as  

if they'd never let go. It was too seldom that Stanley managed to  

bring his family for a visit--only once a year, at Christmas. Gazing  

at the grandchildren, it was hard to believe they were Margaret's.  

In his mind's eyes she was younger than they were. 

 "Come on, children. We have a long way to go," Stanley said firmly  

and, to their credit, they kissed their grandmother, gave Benton a  

crushing four member hug, and ran out into the snow. Stanley smiled  

at both Meg and Benton, and then followed his children. 

 Left alone with her parents, tears came to Margaret's eyes. "I  

can't believe it's time to go again. I miss you so much." 

 Meg reached up and cupped her daughter's face. "And we miss you.  

It would break our hearts if you didn't come to see us every year." 

 Margaret wrapped Meg up in a hug. "Bye, Mother. I love you." 

 Meg kissed her and smiled. "Our love keeps us together." 

	She nodded and then hugged Benton. "Good bye, Father." 

	In his arms, she felt strong and capable, but her trembling tugged
 

at his heart. He held her closer, wishing that she and her family  

could stay. 

	"Don't cry," he whispered, "Or you'll make me cry too." 

	She pulled away, laughing but running her thumbs under her eyes.  

"Take care of Mother. I'll see you next year." 

Then she turned and picked her way through the snow. As he watched  

her and her family leaving, Benton wrapped his arm around his wife.  

She smiled and leaned into him, making him look down at her. 

 After all these years, she was still beautiful. There was something  

in her eyes that spoke of passion and laughter veiled by calm  

serenity and efficiency. She had a rare smile, but when it appeared,  

Benton was just as lost as he was the first time she had smiled at  

him. 

"Another year gone, Ben." Her voice was soft. 

	"Yes, another year older and another bit of happiness in my
heart." 

 She chuckled at this, squeezing him tightly. "Someone once told me  

that the measure of a person is not in what he owns but in the amount  

of love he has from his family and the amount of respect people have  

for him." 

"Ah, yes. And someone tends to remind him of that every year or  

two. As a matter of fact, she used it to convince him to let his  

daughter marry a certain young man." 

 This caused her to sigh. "The house is always so empty when they  

leave." 

 "Yes, I know, but think of the quiet time we get together." 

 This time when she looked at him, there was a wicked gleam in her  

eyes. Benton felt himself flushing. She still had the power to make  

him blush with just a look. "Now, Meggie, I think I know what you're  

thinking." 

	"Oh, really, Ben?" she asked in mock horror. "Am I that easy to  

read?" 

	Instead of answering this, he gently kissed her forehead. Then, he
 

said, "I don't know what I would have done without the love and  

happiness you have given me." 

	"It has been a good life, hasn't it?" She pulled from him and took
 

his hand. He regarded her seriously. When he did not follow, she  

continued, "It's been a long couple of days, Mr. Smythe, and we are  

old. Don't you think it's time we went to bed?" 

	"To bed? With you? I thought you'd never ask." 

 Smiling, he squeezed her hand and followed her into the bedroom.
*********** 

July 28, 1755 

Marguerite d'Entremont wiped a stray strand of dark hair from her  

brow with the back of her hand as she turned from the fireplace. Her  

gaze wandered to the faces around her. Happy, happy faces. 

	Little Marie was carefully cutting carrots, even the smallest
knife  

looking huge in her tiny white hands. Claire, though only three, was  

proudly placing the dishes on the table. She loved it when Papa  

hugged her and told her what a big girl she was. On the floor in the  

corner, Helene played with Etienne, keeping the baby out from under  

foot. Watching them, joy and love filled Marguerite. They were hers  

and his. Together, the two of them had made something so wonderful  

that at times it brought tears to her eyes. 

	"There, Maman," Marie said proudly. "I chopped them all myself." 

	"That's my girl. Come put them in the stew. You know, if there is 


enough rabbit left, we will have a treat for tomorrow." 

	"Rappie pie!" Claire squealed in delight, almost dropping her  

plates. 

	Marguerite grinned at her, getting a grin in return. "Just don't  

drop Papa's plate. He'll be mad if he has to eat off of the floor." 

	This caused a chorus of giggles from the girls. Papa *never* got  

angry. It was into this merriment that a small boy came charging  

through the door. It banged loudly on its wooden casing, making the  

baby jump and start to cry. 

	Marguerite scooped up Etienne, scolding, "Marc, how many times
have  

I told you not to bang open that door?" 

	"Sorry, Maman. What's for supper? It smells great." 

 He threw his mother a disarming grin and moved to the supper table.  

	"No, Marc, I get to sit by Papa!" Claire cried in protest as she  

saw which chair he was taking. 

	"You can each take a side," their mother said, striving to keep  

peace, as she bounced Etienne gently on her hip. 

	"Marc, did you leave the door open again?" came a soft voice as a 


man entered the small house. 

	There was a general scream of 'Papa!' as Marguerite watched her  

three daughters swarm the tall man in the doorway. The same look of  

surprised amusement he wore every day went over his face, a smile  

dancing in his blue eyes. 

	Not for the first time in their eight years of marriage,
Marguerite  

found herself studying Benton. His honest, handsome face showed a  

kindness and patience that most of her brothers had lacked. His dark  

curly hair was soft and perfect to run her fingers through. After  

all of these years, the sight of him still made her heart beat	

faster. Every time she saw him with the children, it made her love  

grow stronger. 

	Flipping one of the girls onto his back and letting the other two 


drag him to the table, Benton gave an appreciative sniff. 

	"Something smells wonderful." 

	"I helped cook, Papa," Marie told him proudly. 

	"I'm glad. You're a great cook," he replied, tousling her dark	

hair. 

	"Maman said I could sit by you tonight, Papa," This was Claire. 

	Helene, the quiet one, didn't say anything. She just buried her  

face in her father's shoulder, hugging him tight. 

	"How long for supper, Maman? I'm *starving*." Marc broke the spell
 

Marguerite seemed to be under. Once more the truth hit her that this  

wasn't just any family, this was *her* family. 

	"Sit down, Benton. You must be tired." For the first time, she	

noticed the dirt smudged on his face and in his clothes. 

	After first going to the basin, and forcing Marc to do the same,
he  

wearily sat down at the table. 

	"Can I serve tonight, Maman?" Marie asked eagerly. 

	Marguerite, who had also had a hard day, nodded and sat down.  

Etienne settled comfortably in her lap. 

	"There was another meeting in Halifax today, Meggie," Benton  

commented, shortly after Grace, taking a bite of bread. 

	"Another, mon cher? Why? It seems they always end the same. We	

said we will not fight. That should be enough for them!" 

	"But some of us are French..." 

	"Benton!" Marguerite shushed him with a glare. 

	He nodded in understanding. 

	She, however, continued, "Some have taken the oath. Many have  

fled." 

	She thought sadly of the good bye she had shared with her only	

sister. Isabelle's husband had taken his wife and fled to Ile  

Saint-Jean. When he had urged Benton to do the same, Marguerite's  

husband had gotten that calm masklike look on his face. His jaw had  

set stubbornly and he had replied that no one would drive him from  

his home. Marguerite had felt a fierce pride in Benton at that	

moment. 

	Benton's jaw tightened now. "Fled their homes because of a threat 


we've been subjected to for almost a hundred years." 

	"I know, Benton. I know...Would you like some stew, Etienne? It's 


good. Maman made it." 

	"What was the meeting about, Papa?" Marc asked, putting down his  

milk glass. Marguerite noticed with amusement that it had left a  

white ring on his upper lip. 

	"Nothing important," Benton assured him. "The English are blowing 


smoke again." 

	"I heard that the..." Marc screwed up his face to remember,
"...um,  

New Englanders...That they want to throw us out of our homes." 

	"They're British subjects. All the British want to throw us out of
 

our homes," came the remarkably grown up reply from Marie. 

	"Marie, where did you hear that?" Marguerite demanded. 

	"Grandpere." 

	"Benton, you've got to tell him to stop scaring my children." 

	"I'm sorry, Meggie. I'll talk to him in the morning." Benton wiped
 

his mouth on his napkin and stood up. "Would you like me to take the  

baby? I'm finished and you've barely touched your meal." 

	Marguerite gave him a grateful smile. Her husband was a rare sort.
 

He enjoyed taking care of his children, something those around him  

considered a woman's place. She loved to watch him crawling around  

on the wooden floor, a child on his back, or tickling Helene until  

the normally serious child burst into giggles. 

	Now, she watched as he noted Etienne's drooping eyes. Gently  

holding the baby to his chest, he moved around the room, singing  

softly. By the end of his song, Etienne wasn't the only one with  

heavy eyes. Helene had fallen asleep with her face on her spoon, and  

Claire was gripping the table and blinking rapidly. 

	"I'll get the twins," Marguerite said, finishing the last of her  

stew. 

	Gently, she brought one little girl into her arms, then the other 


one. Marc and Marie knew that this was a signal for them to get  

ready for bed also. They followed their mother into their bedroom  

without complaint as their father brought the baby into the other  

room. 

	There were two beds in the tiny bedroom. The girls shared the big 


one and Marc got the little one all to himself--at least until	

another baby pushed Etienne out of the cradle. 

	As Marguerite put the twins down, watching to make sure Marc and  

Marie got undressed, Helene woke up and pursed her lips for a kiss.  

This, her mother gave her without question, giving one to her twin as  

well.  

	"My turn, Maman! My turn!" Marie said, jumping into bed with her  

sisters. With a smile, her mother kissed her too. 

	"Well, Marc?" 

	At the age of seven, Marc was beginning to feel he was too grown
up  

for things like kisses. 

	"Well, what, Maman?" He looked at her with those honest, clear
blue  

eyes he had inherited from Benton. 

	"Do I get to kiss you tonight?" 

	He looked thoughtful, thinking it over. "I guess so, but just for 


tonight." 

	Marguerite would always be grateful for that kiss. 

	It was just a short while later, after cleaning up the supper
dishes	

and massaging Benton's sore back, that Marguerite found herself  

slipping into bed beside her husband. He sighed contentedly as she  

wrapped her arms around him. 

	"We are truly blessed," he whispered, running his fingers through 


her dark hair. 

	"Etienne spoke today." 

	"He did? What did he say?" 

	Marguerite laughed softly. "What do they all say first? Papa, of  

course." 

	"Some day," he assured her, kissing her forehead. "One of them
will  

say Maman first and Marie will have to throw water on you to revive  

you." 

	"Oh, I don't mind, Benton. When they want fun and spoiling, they
go  

to you, but when they're hurt or frightened, it's 'Maman! Maman!'"  

A little smile of satisfied pride settled on her lips.	

	"They are growing up so quickly." 

	"Yes," she agreed. "Soon, Marc will be old enough to take over
half  

of the fields. That will be better on your poor back."	

	"I saw Helene in the orchard today. I don't think you'll have any 


trouble getting her to help gather the apples in the fall. Little as  

she is, she can still be of some use." 

	"I think," Marguerite commented, kissing his chest, "God blessed  

our wedding day. It seems almost a sin to be so happy." 

	With a gentle finger, Benton raised her face to his. He kissed her
 

gently, softly causing warmth to flood through her body. 

	"You're tired," she protested, but not too firmly. 

	"I am never too tired for you, Meggie. I just want to show you how
 

happy you make me." 

	With a sigh, she gave in and fell into his love... 

Marguerite was awakened by a pounding on the door. Beside her,	

Benton stirred, but continued to sleep. With a frown, she covered  

her husband and made her way to the main room of their home.  

Glancing out a nearby window, she noticed that dawn was just starting  

to tinge the horizon.  

	"I'll be right there. Wait a moment." 

	Still, the pounding continued. Grumbling, she stumbled to the
door,  

opening it a crack. 

	There was a man on the other side, an English soldier. He looked  

cross and his bayonet was in his hand. 

	"Yes?" 

	He said something in his strange language, but she did not  

understand. Benton was the one who knew pieces of English.  

	"I don't understand," she protested, shaking her head for
emphasis. 

	"You must come with me," he told her in broken French. 

	"My husband..." Marguerite pointed towards the back of the house. 

	The man just stared at her and repeated, "You must come with me." 

	Two more soldiers joined the first at the door. They spoke to him 


and he replied. Frustration and fear made Marguerite grit her teeth.  

 She hated not knowing what they were saying about her. 

	"Marguerite?" Benton's voice called from the bedroom 

	Just hearing him made relief flood her. Benton would know what to 


do. 

	"Soldiers," she answered simply. 

	Within seconds, his face was at the door. He frowned slightly as
he  

saw the men just outside of his home. Quietly, he said something in  

their language and was answered angrily. His frown deepened and he  

spoke again. One of the soldiers moved forward threateningly. Benton  

gave a slight nod.  

	"Marguerite, get dressed and dress the children." 

	"But, Benton..." 

	"Just do it!" 

	Hurt, Marguerite headed for the bedroom. Benton had never snapped 


at her before. In fact, she had never heard him snap at anyone. She  

wondered what was going on. Questions burned in her mind, but she  

pushed them away. If her husband was frightened--he must be  

frightened to snap that way--then now was not a time to question his  

judgment. 

	She dressed quickly, then took the baby from his cradle. As she  

went to wake the rest of her family, she heard voices. One was calm  

and rational, and the other was harsh and angry. She wished she knew  

what they were saying. 

	"What's going on, Mama?" Marie asked as Marguerite bent over her. 

	"It is very important to get up now, ma chere, and you must be
very  

grown up and help Maman dress the little ones." 

	Handing Etienne to Marc, who she had awakened first, Marguerite  

started getting her other three children ready. Feeling her mood,  

they helped when they could and remained completely silent. Etienne  

began to cry in his brother's arms, but even his sobs were quiet. 

	The five of them, once dressed, huddled together, staring at their
 

mother with wide eyes. She looked at their faces, so solemn despite  

their tender ages. Motioning with her head, she indicated that they  

must all go face what was waiting. 

	Benton turned when he heard them enter. Marguerite avoided his	

eyes, focusing her attention on her children instead.  

	"We must go with these men to Port Royale, Meggie," he said
softly. 

	She lifted her head to look at him. His face was so masklike it  

looked as if it would crack. His eyes, in contrast, were a raging  

storm. Anger. Fear. Determination. Resolve. 

	"I will pack..." 

	"No. There is no time." 

	"But our things..." 

	"It was all I could do to get them to allow you to dress. You must
 

trust me. It will be all right." 

	She stared hard at him for a moment, then nodded, taking the baby 


from Marc. 

	"Children, we are going on a trip. I want you to be extra good.  

Show your father you know how to behave." 

	Round eyes and white faces were all that answered her. She hugged 


Etienne closer, wishing she could hold all of her babies at the same  

time. Benton knelt and took Helene in one arm and Claire in the  

other. To Marie and Marc, he gave a small smile. Then he turned to  

the English soldiers and gave them a sharp nod. Two moved to his  

side, holding their bayonets ready. The last one came to Marguerite  

and roughly took her arm. Frightened, Marc and Marie took each	

others hand. 

	Then, the family of seven stepped out of their safe and happy home
 

and into hell. 

	Marguerite heard the screams as soon as the door opened. At their 


sound, Marie and Marc pressed against her legs and the twins buried  

their faces in Benton's shirt. 

	Her eyes started to burn as she took in the scene around her, and 


she didn't know if it was smoke or repressed tears. Soldiers were  

everywhere. They were herding people, striking some. Children were  

crying for their parents, and all around were the flames. They	

licked at every building, barn or house, and at tender new shoots.  

Turning her head slightly, Marguerite saw a man with a torch come  

forward and throw it at one of her own windows. 

	She wanted to join her neighbors in their screaming, to kick and  

fight her way free. Pride and her promise to Benton stopped her.  

Making her face as cold as her husband's, Marguerite put her back to  

the home she had known for eight years. She was even almost  

successful at blocking out the horrifying sounds. 

	The soldier gripping her arm spoke sharply. She looked to Benton. 

 Quietly, he told her, "He said if we come quietly none of us will be  

hurt." 

	Marguerite's urge to wrench her arm from the soldier's grip and
join  

the others in their mad, unsuccessful dashes for freedom intensified.  

 Her dignity, however, would not allow it, and she couldn't bear the  

thought of Benton believing she was a coward. 

	As she walked down the little dirt street that ran through the	

centre of the village, she tried not to look right or left. Still,  

out of the corner of her eye, the flames seemed to call to her. The  

heat from them soon had her dress soaked with sweat. Inside of	

her, something seemed to be dying, and she couldn't even find the  

strength to pray. 

	They were in the labour camp for five days, crowded into room in
the  

fort and guarded at all times. When Marguerite asked Benton what  

they were waiting for, he told her boats. 

	*Boats to where?* she wondered.  

	The children remained solemn and seemed to take on some of the	

stoicism of their parents. Marguerite felt cold all of the time.  

She tried not to show it, but Benton felt it. She knew this because  

whenever they were alone, he tightened an arm around her. Those were  

the only times she could feel herself almost relax. 

	It was on the fifth day when she was sitting listlessly, Etienne
in  

her lap, that she heard excited noises coming from outside the door.  

At the sounds, the twins twined hands and Marie crept nearer to her  

mother's skirts. Not for the first time, Marguerite's thoughts went  

to Benton and Marc. The English had come for them that morning,  

needing extra hands to help with some repairs. They had not been  

back. 

	The excited noises went on for some time, and Marguerite could
hear  

the sound of boots going by her door. Each time they came, she held  

her breath, hoping her husband and son would be returned to her. 

 Suddenly, the feet did stop.  

	Marguerite's hold on her baby tightened as she and her daughters  

watched the door open. Behind it were three English soldiers--alone. 

 Quickly, she got to her feet. "Where's Benton? What have you done  

with my husband?" 

	One of the soldiers said something and another one laughed.  

Marguerite had to stop herself from wincing. How she was beginning  

to hate their language. 

	The quiet soldier looked at her and spoke one word in French.  

"Come." At least that's what she thought he said before he grabbed  

her arm, his accent was horrible. The grip was tight enough to hurt,  

but Marguerite schooled her features. She would show no emotion to  

these men. 

	The man who had laughed put a firm hand on one each of Claire's
and  

Helene's shoulders. They looked at their mother with faces drained  

of emotion. As Marguerite gave them an encouraging nod, she hoped  

that someday they would learn to feel again. 

	The last soldier, the one with the rough, mocking voice, bent and 


picked up Marie. The child was too frightened to even struggle.  

Marguerite tried to move forward, but the man holding her arm  

wrenched her back to his side. With the jarring motion, the baby  

began to cry, finally wailing his second word. 

	"Maman!" 

	The man holding Marie turned and grinned at her. It was the most  

sinister thing Marguerite had ever seen. 

	"Where are you taking us?" she demanded, while trying to soothe  

Etienne with a stroking touch. 

	Her captor mumbled something that sounded like a twisted form of  

'later', which didn't make sense. He didn't give her any time to  

ponder it before following the other two men out into the beautiful  

summer day. 

	Around them, others were gathered, Acadian and English alike. All 


seemed to be going in the same direction. Marguerite's family was  

swept away with the others. She craned her neck as they went,  

searching for signs of Benton and Marc. She saw people she knew, but  

non were her husband and son. 

	As they approached the docks, Marguerite suddenly understood. Two 


boats had come. With them came the end of the world as she knew it.  

Etienne, feeling her mood, began to cry again, but this time very  

quietly. 

	"Maman!" Marguerite's head snapped around as she heard a child's  

voice. Was that Marc? It sounded so like him that she was almost  

positive. She stopped, causing her captor to tug on her arm. She  

ignored him. 

	"Maman!" The call was desperate, but close. 

	"Marc?" 

	"Maman!" This time, the call was a little further away. 

	She peered through the people, trying to see her son. Her hope had
 

almost vanished when--there! And standing next to him, looking like  

a beautiful angel, was Benton. 

	"Benton! Marc!" Marguerite and the little ones were being herded  

towards one boat, but the other two seemed to be headed towards the  

other. 

	Benton's eyes had been scanning the crowd, but at the sound of his
 

name, he turned. The way his eyes lit up when they saw her made a  

warmth settle on her heart. His mouth even curled up in a rare	

smile. 

	"Meggie!" he called to her. 

	She tried to move towards him, but the hand on her arm wouldn't
let  

her. Marguerite struggled to get away, but he held her tighter,  

turning to say something sharply. 

	She wasn't looking at him, she was watching Benton. At her rough  

treatment, his brows had drawn together in a scowl. He whispered  

something to himself and tried to fight his way through the crowd.  

Bayonets immediately crossed in front of him. He spoke, earning  

himself a violent shove. He turned, swinging--which shocked  

Marguerite as Benton had never raised his fist to anyone before--and  

was immediately swarmed with English soldiers. 

	"Benton!" Marguerite screamed in anguish, trying to see him in the
 

ruckus. 

	There were suddenly two men by her side instead of one, both of
them  

grumbling and swearing--in the past five days she had learned some  

English swear words. They firmly pushed her towards the boat, her  

daughters already way ahead in the line. She looked longingly at the  

place where Benton had disappeared, wondering how she was supposed to  

choose between her husband and son and her daughters.  

	She didn't get to make the decision. It was made for her as the  

soldiers holding her practically carried her towards the waiting  

ship. There was thunderous noise all around her, but all Marguerite  

heard was Marc's anguished cry. "Maman!...Papa, she was  

there!...Maman!" 

	She never saw her husband or her son again. ******* 

May 3, 1863 

	Benton stood there watching her, his face expressionless, his jaw 


clenched. The fine angles of his sunburned face barely twitched. He  

looked calm and controlled--or he would have if Meg could not see the  

anguish in his blue eyes. 

	The rain fell around them. She could still feel his last kiss on  

her lips. How she loved him, this maddening man who would not give  

up. The man who stood, dripping, in the rain to watch her leave. 

 It had plastered his shirt to him. His curly brown hair lay flat  

for once. Rivulets dropped off the end of his nose, from his ears,  

and from his fingers. She was afraid he would catch his death of  

cold. 

	Meg's gaze wandered over him, knowing she would never see Benton  

again. Hungrily, she took in his body--those broad shoulders that  

bore his burdens without complaint; those strong hands that gently  

calmed her fears, as well as the fears of any animal in his keeping; 

those long beautiful legs that had carried her through the doorway of  

their new home; those tender lips that had kissed her until she  

temporarily forgot the warmth of home. Everything. She wanted to  

remember everything. Lastly, Meg's gaze went to Benton's eyes.	

Those eyes had always told her the words his stoic face could not.  

It was in their blueness that she always felt so safe. 

	Benton was crying. 

	Drops of water fell down her love's face, and not all of them were
 

raindrops. She saw tears meet and mingle with rain to slide down his  

cheeks. His face remained self controlled. The contrast of  

composure and tears was not lost on Meg. Those eyes called to her  

more strongly than any voice could have. 

	*Meggie. Stay with me, Meggie. You don't have to go. We can make  

a life here. I love you. Please...Please...* 

	She wavered a moment, watching the tears fall down his face. Her  

heart seemed to be breaking in her chest, but she couldn't stay here.  

 This country, this--what did they call it?--wild west, it was not  

her home. She had seen a man shot in the street. Guns hung  

nonchalantly from every hip. She could not raise children here.  

Home in New England, she would be safe. But she would be without  

him. 

	Firmly, Meg wrenched her eyes from Benton's face. The cart she	

would drive into town was waiting behind her. Without looking back  

he lifted her skirt and nimbly got on board. She was not the  

delicate flower that had arrived here a year before with her husband.  

 She could go home alone on that stage coach. She could face the  

redicule of the people in her family's circle. Maybe she would tell  

them Benton was dead. 

	As she flicked the reigns, she told herself she was not turning
her  

back on Benton. She was turning her back on this place and all the  

hardships that went with it. She would not let herself regret this  

decision. She firmly pressed this into her mind. Even so, she knew  

she'd always remember his blue eyes crying in the rain. *** 

June 7, 1917 

  

Margaret Yonge sat at her kitchen window, staring out into the	

darkness. Her heart felt like lead. She was so tired. It had been  

ages since she had been able to sleep, but the weariness in her came  

from something else. Loneliness, possibly. Pain, probably. 

	She knew how she looked. Every day, her mother told her,
"Margaret,  

you're not eating,"; "Margaret, the bags under your eyes are big  

enough to use as luggage." The comments made her want to scream and  

stamp her feet in temper like a child. No one seemed to understand. 

	If she closed her eyes, she could see him. He looked as he had
when  

he left. His curly brown hair had been clipped short, and that	

uniform they gave him fit like a glove. Benton had been smiling,  

Margaret remembered. His smile was a rare and beautiful thing. Just  

thinking of it made her heart beat faster. 

	His eyes had looked at her adoringly. Maybe that's why she loved  

his eyes so much, they always looked at her with such love. Her  

mother had warned her not to marry Benton, but she couldn't say no to  

those eyes. 

	Then, six months later, he was gone. 

	She had not cried when he got on the train. Instead, she
remembered  

the taste of his last kiss and the way he said, 'Don't worry.  

There's nothing that will stop me from coming home to you.' Knowing  

he believed this, Margaret had forced herself to smile. Her last  

glimpse of Benton had been him saluting from the train window. She  

had saluted back. 

	A year had gone by. It was a hard year. She missed Benton with a  

passion her mother said bordered on obsession. Margaret didn't care.  

 She wrote him faithfully twice a week, and his occasional letters  

home--filled with the 'I love yous' he rarely said in person--were  

enough to keep her going. Then--six months ago--the letters had  

stopped. 

	She had waited eagerly for the postman, meeting him on the street 


every day, but time had dragged on without a letter. When a letter  

did finally come, it had almost stopped her heart. 

	Margaret looked down at the crumpled paper in her hand. Every  

night, she sat at this window reading the letter then crumpling it.  

Somehow, she could never bring herself to throw it away. Burning it  

might have been cathartic, but she was always stopped short by her  

last memory of Benton. This letter was a piece of him. 

	She remembered the way it felt the first time she read the letter:
 

missing in action, presumed dead. At first, there was an  

otherworldly feeling. It wasn't her Benton who was lost--dead?--out  

there. It was someone else's. Her mother had come to her, taking  

the letter out of her numb hands. She herself read it and then she  

spoke. Margaret hated her for speaking. It was a dark, burning hate  

that was fed every night by the rereading of the letter. If her  

mother hadn't spoken, it wouldn't have become real. Margaret knew  

this was foolish, but she had to hate something. Besides her mother,  

the only thing there was to hate was Canada, and Margaret couldn't do  

that. Benton had loved his country too much. 

	After the disbelief had come the pain. It was ripping, tearing
pain  

and tears refused to come to soothe it. Margaret discovered that she  

had lost the ability to cry. In its place was this heavy feeling  

that settled on her chest like a weight. It was hard to breathe,  

hard to talk, hard to function with the weight pressing down and  

down. The only thing she seemed able to do was sit in front of this  

damned window and relive their last day together. One of these days,  

the memories were going to suffocate her. This she believed with  

what was left of her heart. 

	Margaret's attention was called from her memories by the movement
of  

the dog at her feet. She looked down and almost smiled. It seemed  

like Bug's was the only company she could bear these days. He was  

Benton's dog and had never taken to anyone else--until her. Benton  

had tried to tell her that that was how he knew she was the one he  

was meant to be with. 

	"I guess it's just the two of us, hey, Bug?" 

 The dog whined, getting to his feet. Margaret scratched him behind  

the ears, thankful for the slight lull in her grief that he brought.  

His ears and tail both perked up. 

	"You seem lively tonight, old friend. What is it?" 

 The dog almost danced as he looked at her with intelligent, eager  

eyes. 

	"Oh no. It's too late to play tonight. We'll wake Mother, and you 


know how she is..." 

	Margaret trailed off as a sound from the front door came to her.  

Fear tightened her stomach, and her hand stilled in Bug's hair. The  

sound came again--a banging. It was faint at first, and then louder.  

 Bug went forward carefully, inching towards the door. 

	"Is someone there?" Margaret's voice came out in a whisper. She  

cleared her throat and tried again. "Who's there?" 

	Had she locked the door? 

	Clenching her jaw in an effort to fight fear, she moved towards
the  

sound. 

	"Hello?" 

	Margaret almost screamed as the door opened. She gripped the  

windowsill. Her knuckles turned white as she prepared to give Bug an  

order. The order never came. 

	"Meggie?" 

	Her mouth fell open, but nothing came out. Quickly, she scanned
the  

person in front of her. Green hat, blue eyes, strong jaw, green  

jacket, wooden cane, black boots. In disbelief, her eyes went over  

him again, hungrily taking in every inch of him. 

	She finally found her voice. "B...Benton?" 

	"I hope so, or Bug's not doing his job." Then he smiled. 

	Margaret's stomach felt like it did three turns before coming to  

rest somewhere around her collarbone. Shaking began at her toes and  

wound its way up her body. 

	"But...But..." 

	"I told you I'd come home. Have I ever lied to you?" 

	"They said..." 

	He slowly came forward, limping slightly. Raising a hand, he  

stroked Margaret's face. His eyes seemed to be drinking in her	

features. 

	"I could never leave you, Meggie." 

	She let out a heart wrenching moan and threw her arms around him.
He  

was solid. Margaret could feel him through his uniform. He felt  

thinner but he was so *real*. None of her dreams had been this real.  

 Margaret continued to shake.  

	Benton's arms tightened, and he made soothing sounds in her hair. 


Her body relaxed for the first time since Benton had left almost two  

years before. With the relaxation, the wall she had built up for  

protection came crashing down. 

	Softly, Margaret began to cry. ********** 

"You know, this is very good," Frannie said, dropping a piece of  

eggroll into her mouth. "Where'd you order from?" 

	Meg gave her friend a small smile. "I never divulge top secret	

information." 

	Her smile was returned tenfold as Frannie speared from rice with
her  

fork. "I wonder what he's doing now." 

	Meg gave her a blank look. "Who?" 

	This gained her an amused stare. "What d'ya mean who? Fraser. I  

bet he and Ray are out there right now, chasing bad guys..." 

	"And I'm stuck behind a desk." 

	"*We're* stuck behind a desk." 

	"You're not even a cop, Frannie...Do you want that last eggroll?" 

	"No, but I do all the work. If they want something it's, 'hey,	

Frannie', or 'hi, Frannie.' When they don't want something, it's  

like I'm not even there...Let's split it." 

	As Meg munched her half of the eggroll, her mind went back--for  

about the thousandth time--to what Frannie had said earlier. How had  

she gotten the idea of past lives from what Meg had seen? Yes, she  

had seen Fraser--a different Fraser--but that didn't necessarily  

mean... 

	She had been thinking about it all through their lunch. The
picture  

was dimmer now, as if fading, but she seemed to recall his dress was  

somewhat rustic, old fashioned even--but that didn't prove anything. 

	Her train of thought was broken once more by Frannie's voice. "You
 

know, there's something I've been dying to ask you for weeks. I  

don't want to pry, but..." 

	Meg sighed. This could be about anything. "What is it, Francesca?"


	"Train." 

	"What?" Meg's eyes widened and her palms felt slightly damp.  

	"There it is again. Why is it that everytime the word train is	

mentioned, you almost jump out of your skin? I saw your reaction  

when Fraser said something about an incident on a train. What train,  

Meg? What incident? What happened?" 

	Meg felt herself blushing. "Nothing. Nothing happened. There was  

no incident." 

	"Don't pull that on me. I know what I saw." 

	Why did Frannie have to bring up the train? Events ran through	

Meg's head, events she'd been trying to forget for months. You just  

didn't forget things like Fraser's warm lips against your skin and  

the way it felt to be in his arms just by trying. His admissions  

that he couldn't forget either made it harder. 

	"Meg?...Meg?...Inspector Thatcher?" 

	"Sorry, Frannie. Believe me, there was no incident. None at all." 

	"I don't believe it." The dark woman poked her fork in Meg's  

direction. "But I will drop it...for now." 

	The Mountie almost sighed again with relief. She was just about to
 

steer the conversation in a suitably safe direction when her phone  

rang. Raising her eyebrows at Francesca, she answered.	

	"Canadian Consulate, Inspector Margaret Thatcher speaking. may I  

help you?...Consulate du Canada..." 

	She was interrupted by a rough male voice. "I don't need the whole
 

French spiel. I couldn't speak French if my life depended on it. Is  

Francesca Vecchio there?" 

	"Lieutenant Welsh, I presume? I could ask you a similar question. 


Have you seen Constable Fraser?" 

	"Give me my employee, Inspector, and I'll make sure you get
yours." 

	"It's a deal. She's done eating anyway. Good afternoon,  

Lieutenant." Hanging up, she said, "It's time for you to be a good  

little girl and go home." 

	Frannie rolled her eyes. "He probably wants me to bring him  

coffee--bad coffee, I might add." 

	Trying not to smile, Meg asked, "What happened to your cappuccino 


machine?" 

	"He confiscated it, like it was a toy in math class. Can you  

believe that? Men!" With that, she got up, throwing her hands in  

the air. "He wouldn't know good coffee if it bit him in the butt."  

Then, heading towards the door, she continued, "Don't forget Date  

with Destiny. You promised. If I see Frase, I'll tell him you're  

looking for him. Oh, and think on this past lives thing. You never  

know..." 

	"Bye, Francesca." 

	Frannie was already out the door, but she stuck her hand back in
the  

crack and gave a wave good bye. Shaking her head, Meg put on her  

glasses and restarted what she had been doing before her visit with  

the Italian whirlwind. ******* 

"You wanted to see me, sir?" 

	"Yes, Fraser. Come in." 

	He did so, closing the door behind him. Then, as usual, he stood
at  

attention, with his hat behind his back. She studied him a moment,  

noticing his usually neat hair was slightly mussed. Who knew what  

dangerous stunt he had pulled with that awful detective? 

	Noticing that the silence had stretched too long, she spoke again.
 

"There was something I wanted to speak with you about this morning,  

but it somehow slipped my mind." 

	"Yes, sir?" 

	"There is a Consular ball at the end of the month--the 29th. You  

are expected to be there in formal dress. I also will be attending,  

as well as Turnbull, though I don't know if that's wise. I'm still  

getting phone calls from the Australian ambassador." 

	She gazed into his face, searching for signs of any emotion or	

reaction. Of course, there were none. Then, a crawling feeling	

started at the base of her neck. The last time she had looked at him  

like this, her whole world had shifted. She waited, but this time  

nothing happened.  

	"Yes, sir. Are you all right, sir?" 

	"All right?" she asked sharply. "What do you mean all right?" 

	"It's just that you look a little pa...Never mind." He shifted his
 

gaze from hers. For a moment, she was disappointed.  

	"And don't forget, you've got sentry duty this afternoon." 

	There. A twitch. She knew she saw it. That was Fraser's version  

of a wince. For some reason, she was perversely pleased. 

	"No, ma'am." 

	"You are dismissed...And whatever you and the detective did today,
I  

disapprove." 

	"Understood, Meggie." 

	Meg froze, a shiver going through her. There was something about  

the way that sounded... 

	Angrily, she asked, "What did you just call me?" 

	"Sir?" Puzzlement came to his face as he drew a thumb across his  

eyebrow.  

	"Just now," she demanded, "What did you call me?" 

	"Sir, sir?" 

	His innocent expression enflamed her further. "You called me  

Meggie, not sir, Fraser." 

	"Meggie, sir? Are you sure?" 

	She bit her lip momentarily. Was she sure? Then, she grit her  

teeth. "Of course I'm sure." 

	"Well," He still sounded puzzled. "I have no idea why I'd call you
 

Meggie, sir. Inspector, sir, or ma'am, certainly. I can see  

Margaret, as it's your first name, or maybe even Meg because I've  

heard people call you that, but Meggie...I can't think of any  

reason..." 

	"That's enough, Fraser." Her voice could have cut glass. 

	"Understood." Then after a pause, he said quietly, "Maybe you just
 

look like a Meggie." 

	"Fraser." 

	"Sorry...Could I have heard someone call you that, sir?" 

	Meg shook her head sharply. "No one's called me that since I was  

five years old. Now, once more, you are dismissed." 

	"Understood." 

	As she watched Fraser go, it seemed a million conflicting emotions
 

were going through her. Some, she did not understand, and  

others--like loss--were all too clear to her. She had been  

devastated when her grandmother died. Her memories of the time	

before she started school were of her mother and father as discipline  

and her granny as love. Granny had been the most important thing in  

her world and, even now, when all she could remember were warm hugs,  

smiling gray eyes, and the smell of chocolate chip cookies, the  

memory of her death was still a sharp presence in Meg's heart. The  

question was, how had Fraser come to call her the pet name only her  

grandmother had used? His puzzlement and innocence had only served  

to disorient and fluster Meg, two feeling she hated  

owning--especially in front of Fraser. 

	Confusion as to her feelings about *him*--as opposed to anyone
else  

in the universe--calling her by that name almost overwhelmed her.  

Had she felt a secret joy in it? Or was that unnamable feeling fear? 

	Without her consent, her thoughts wandered to Date with Destiny.  

Francesca's words filled her mind. "Everytime she turns  

around--there he is!" There was something about the past day that  

was trying to fit together in her mind, and it infuriated Meg that  

she couldn't put it together. 

	With a sigh, she forcefully turned her mind back to the paperwork
in  

front of her. The difficulty in turning it made her wonder if it  

would be fair to give Fraser another month of sentry duty just for  

calling her by a form of endearment. 

	As she thought of the word endearment, Meg felt herself flushing. 


What would her reaction have been if his voice had been soft and  

gentle instead of cool and impersonal when he said it? She had a  

sneaky suspicion that she would have fallen apart. 

	"Meg," she said sternly, "How could you allow a man to have that  

much power over you? You should be ashamed." 

	She wrenched her thoughts back to her papers and this time--with  

sheer determination--she was able to keep them there. ************ 

Meg was bored. All of these Consular balls were the same--smile and  

pretend you were having a good time while you were listening to the  

dullest person on the face of the planet. Still, she had managed not  

to scream. In fact, all of the men and women she talked to seemed to  

find her fascinating. Then again, they could have been faking it as  

much as she was. 

	She was beginning to wonder if the red dress was a good idea. It  

seemed to allow everyone to be able to find her. Someone had told  

her once--or twice--that red suited her, so she wore it for his  

benefit. Now, she had to put up with being the most notable person  

in the room--everyone else seemed to have chosen subdued colors like  

blue, black, or green, and *he* wasn't even there. A feeling in her  

gut told her that Fraser was out there with that spiky haired moron  

and that he would not make it to the ball. This thought made Meg  

grit her teeth, and the man who was yapping at her in what sounded  

like gibberish stopped in mid-sentence and excused himself. Meg  

barely noticed. 

	Her eyes searched the room once more and she bit her lip,
wondering  

if she should be worried. Sometimes Fraser's exploits were  

harmless, but other times...Unbidden, her mind went back to a time  

when Fraser and Vecchio--the real Vecchio, not that blond freak who  

called himself Vecchio--had come into a room strapped to both each  

other and a bomb. She remembered that she had been annoyed at  

first...and then the bomb had been revealed. Her heart had stopped.  

Fear for him had almost made her refuse when she was told to be the  

messenger, and only the urging in Fraser's eyes had made her go. She  

was so relieved that he lived through the ordeal that if they hadn't  

been in different buildings, she thought she might have hugged him  

breathless. Of course, since they were, she had to be satisfied with  

calling him 'moron'. Semaphore made it safe for her to use it as an  

endearment. How would he know that her usual insult had been signed  

with relief instead of venom? 

	Thinking of this made her smile slightly. She was still smiling  

when she noticed Fraser enter the room. Her eyes lingered on the  

perfection of his form. She was not the only one in red, and Fraser  

looked better in red serge than anyone else she knew. His appearance  

was neat and there were no signs of any injuries. Meg found herself  

relieved that he made it home unscathed once more. 

	Her eyes had been on him almost a minute before she realized he
was  

looking at her as well. She felt herself blush as she accidentally  

met his eyes. He gave her a tentative smile, so sweet it almost  

broke her heart. Instead of slamming up her wall as she usually did  

when he smiled at her, she gave him a slight nod. She was glad she  

did as it made his eyes sparkle. Whether in amusement or happiness,  

she wasn't quite sure. 

	Meg turned her face from him, though her thoughts were still on
him.  

 Over the past month, it had become increasingly difficult to forget  

what had happened on the train. She was uncertain if the cause of  

this was her talk with Frannie or that...that...whatever it was.  

Some of her pleasure at seeing his whole hide left her then as she  

thought of the dreams. The vision of Fraser crying in the rain	

haunted her nights. The vision of Fraser crying in the rain haunted  

her nights. At times, it was so intense that she woke sobbing. 

	"Excuse me, sir." 

	Meg's breath caught in her throat at the sound of his voice right 


next to her ear. It was low and soft and it caused a tingle to go  

down her spine. 

	"Yes, Fraser?" she whispered. She couldn't help it. 

	"Um...would you...I mean, if it would, uh..." 

	She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "What are you saying,  

Fraser?" 

	He cleared his throat. "Would you like to dance, sir?" 

	"Dance? With you?" He was regarding her levelly, no hint of his  

thoughts on his face. Sometimes when she looked at him, she wanted  

to crack that mask of indifference to find out what was underneath.  

She supposed that was what made her occasionally go to far with her  

discipline. 

	Knowing what thinking about it would make her say, she didn't give
 

herself time to think. "Certainly, Constable." 

	That little smile came to his face again and she found herself
swept  

into his arms. They were firm against her and he smelled wonderfully  

familiar. 

	"May I say, sir," he commented as he moved her expertly across the
 

floor, "You look very lovely this evening. Red suits you." 

	"Why, thank you, Fraser." 

	Should she tell him that red suited him as well? Then she  

remembered the few times she had seen him in the less formal uniform.  

 It looked even better on him than red serge. Yes, brown suited him  

as well. In fact, it seemed that even an old paper sack would suit  

him. Meg let these thoughts play through her head but she remained  

silent. 

	As they danced around the room, Meg gave in to the bliss that was 


reaching for her. Fraser was an excellent dancer and being in his  

arms was almost hypnotic. She found herself relaxing and, dropping  

her wall, let herself be completely Meg. 

	She didn't realize how dangerous that was until she noticed she
was  

gazing boldly into Fraser's face. He noticed at the same time she  

did, and he blushed as his eyes met hers. Meg felt around inside  

herself for the wall, suddenly desperate to slam it back up again,  

but she couldn't find it. As emotions seemed to swirl inside her,  

she hoped they didn't show on her face. 

	"All you all right, sir?" 

	There was that question again. Something must have shown on her  

face. Pure fear made her pull from him, saying fiercely, "Stop	

asking me that." 

	Then she fled. 

	As she quickly left the room, her cheeks burned in shame. How many
 

people had seen her undignified exit? She made her way to her  

office, trying to sort through the feelings Fraser's touch had	

brought out in her. She still couldn't turn off the emotions. What  

was wrong with her? 

	Throwing her purse in the chair Frannie occupied everytime she	

dropped in, Meg went to her desk and leaned against it. Hanging her  

head, she took several deep breaths. 

	*You will not be afraid of Fraser...You will not be afraid of  

Fraser...* 

	"Sir?" A soft voice and a timid knock sounded behind her. 

	"Dammit, Fraser, can't you just leave me alone?" 

	She whirled to see him standing there, pushing a hurt look from
his  

face. It rippled there for a moment before his expression became the  

same one he always wore. Meg was angry at both him and herself. How  

could he look at her like that? Didn't he know what it did to her? 

	"I'm sorry, sir...I thought...You...um..." He cleared his throat. 


"I need to speak with you." She looked at him incredulously. "If I  

have done anything to offend you, I apologize." 

	Softly, Meg answered, "You have not offended me, Fraser." 

	The anger drained from her as quickly as it had come. She
regretted  

yelling at him, and she regretted running from him in the ball room.  

Somehow she couldn't make herself regret the dance. Slowly, she ran  

a hand over her forehead. "I should be the one who is apologizing." 

	"Sir?" 

	Meg heard a hint of surprise there and almost smiled. She was
going  

to tell him something suitable and was more shocked than he was when  

the truth slipped out. "I was not prepared to dance with you." 

	"I'm not sure I understand what you mean, ma'am." 

	"It doesn't matter. It's unimportant in the scheme of things." 

	He came forward then, stating, "Not to me." 

	She searched his face, simply telling him the truth as she had	

longed to for months. "I am afraid." 

	Warning bells went off in her mind then. She had learned several  

hard facts in her life. Never show weakness. Pretend you don't	

notice the difference in the respect shown to you because you're a  

woman. Shoot first, whether with words or weapons, and you won't be  

the one who's hurt. Never, ever, admit that you're afraid. But she  

just had. Part of her was screaming, calling her a moron; the other  

part of her was filled with relief. She didn't have to hold this  

from Fraser any longer. 

	"Afraid of what?" he asked gently, as if he were talking to a  

startled deer. 

	"You...well, not you exactly..." 

	"Are you afraid that my touch will overwhelm you?...Are you afraid
 

of losing control like you never have before?...Are you afraid that  

what little the others have left of your heart will shatter?...Are  

you afraid that you will risk it all and lose?" 

	She listened to the words coming out of Fraser's mouth and it
seemed	

like it was her heart that was saying them.  

	"How did...how did you know?" 

	He whispered, looking into her eyes. "Because I...I am afraid
too." 

	Was he saying...? Did he mean...? She wanted to ask him. She  

thought she'd die if she didn't know, so Meg opened her mouth to  

speak. Nothing would come out. She tried again, but still with no  

result. 

	Then his arms were around her, warm and safe. She settled against 


him, breathing him in. He smelled like nothing else she had ever  

known and felt better than life itself. 

	"It's all right, Meggie. We'll fight the fear together."
************** 

Epilogue 

June 26, 2003 

	Meg Fraser was sitting very cozily in her own livingroom. It was  

early morning and she was wearing her largest bathrobe and her fuzzy  

slippers. She yawned sleepily, as she did every morning, sipping her  

coffee and gently petting the aged white head in her lap. 

	On the floor in front of her sat three people, two of which were  

giggling hysterically. The other, her husband Ben, was making his  

puffin face while saying, "Come on now, Bobby, you've got to make the  

puffin face. How's Grace supposed to learn if you don't show her?"  

He tried to look serious, but his blue eyes twinkled with amusement.  

The children knew the routine--the puffin face was as much a part of  

Daddy as his gentle voice and his warm bear hugs. 

	"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," Grace babbled, getting up on her unsteady  

feet. 

	Benton fluidly moved to his hands and knees as the two year old
came  

over and put her hands in his mouth. Ben pretended to eat them,  

causing the baby to shriek in mock terror. 

	"Don't worry, Gracie. I'll save you!" Bobby exclaimed, getting	

into the game. 

	Meg watched her son leap onto his father's back, yelling like a  

banshee. Ben let out a great roar and somehow managed to take both  

children into his arms to roll around the floor. Meg sighed  

contentedly--another average morning in the Fraser household. The  

wolf in her lap echoed her happy sound. 

	It never ceased to amaze and delight her. The joy Ben took in his 


children was so much more than she had ever seen. He had been at  

ease with them right from the beginning, knowing what to do almost  

instinctively. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn he  

had hordes of children hidden away. He had had to teach her many  

things, and what once she would have resented she then loved him  

enough to take great pleasure in.  

	For some reason, it had always seemed important to Benton that his
 

children know how much he cared for them. She had even seen him--a  

man who held duty as his most sacred law--at times give cases to  

other people so that he could spend time with Bobby and Grace. It  

made a profound impact on Meg, who took her lead from him. She had  

to admit that it seemed to be the right choice. Grace and Bobby  

seemed to be much happier than she had been as a child--and something  

told her happier than Benton as well. 

	As she watched Benton, it seemed ironic to her that a vision of
his  

broken heart was what had brought them together. Somehow, that	

glimpse of whatever it was--Frannie still swore it was a soul  

memory--had made Meg open her heart. She thanked God every day for  

it, and she promised herself on their wedding day that she would  

never be the cause of his tears--unless of course they were happy  

ones.  

	The phone range then, and Meg reached to the one on the end table.
 

The other three Frasers never even ceased their play. 

	"Hello?" 

	"My God, Meg, you sound half asleep. Aren't you up yet?" 

	"Just barely. Good morning, Frannie." 

	"What's that noise in the background? It sounds like Fraser's  

hunting a bear." 

	"Two. They're little, but they're ferocious. Couldn't this wait?" 

	"Renny said you two would be late. I should have known he was  

right. He knows you even better than Ray or Stan...No, honey. They  

aren't at the airport yet...Listen, if you don't mosey, you're going  

to miss your plane." 

	"We couldn't have that, could we?" Meg asked in mock horror. 

	"Hey, we arrived in Chicago yesterday--It's such a relief to get
out  

of that tiny place in Nova Scotia they call a town. I'm so glad we  

got transferred back--all that we need now to be a complete family is  

the four of you." 

	"Don't worry. We'll be there." 

	"If I know you--and I believe I do, Meg Fraser--you're sitting
there  

on the couch sipping coffee with that huge wolf in your lap, taking  

your good old time about waking up." 

	Meg had to laugh. Despite their different personalities, it was  

scary how well Frannie Turnbull knew her. Laughing came easy to her  

now. It made her feel good--and free. Ben had confessed to her once  

that what had first drawn him to her was the sadness in her eyes. He  

said that it had been like her constant companion, and he was  

perpetually tempted to love it away. Meg liked that. She also liked  

the fact that he had managed to do it. 

	"Are you laughing at me?" 

	"Oh, Frannie, you know me too well. I'm going to get ready right  

now. See you in a couple of hours." 

	"All right. I'll tell Ma to have dinner ready." 

	Meg was still smiling as she got up, causing a groan from  

Diefenbaker. She made her way across the room, around three writhing  

bodies--it seemed Ben was tickling them now--and to the hallway. At  

the door she turned back and felt tears come to her eyes. The  

picture in front of her overwhelmed her for a moment as she realized,  

not for the first time, how very rich she was. Once more, she said a  

silent prayer, knowing she owed everything to blue eyes crying in the  

rain. THE END