"Move your head, I can't see."

Scout obligingly ducked her head in the bed she shared with her boyfriend. George was watching video of himself, having sex with Tessa. His eyes were closed in the video, his expression one of pure joy. Her body was perfect, skin flawless, hair a tawny spill down her back. Tessa smiled at the camera, lips shiny and parted, eyes glowing, as she squeezed her beautiful breasts together. Scout could hear George gasp and moan above her as she sucked on him even harder, trying to get him off as he enjoyed the sight of himself with his first wife.

"Harder, Scout. Scout.

"Scout. Scout!"

She sat up with a start.

It was completely dark in the room, and she could feel George's hand on her shoulder. She heard a click, and the lamp next to his side of the bed cast a warm light, illuminating his concerned face as he sat up next to her. The dogs' heads were lifted as they, too, looked at her, eyes wide in the dim light.

"You were having a nightmare, darling," George said softly, continuing to rub her shoulder. He leaned forward so he could look closely into her eyes. "Are you well and truly awake now?"

She nodded, swallowing, rubbing at her throat, turning away from him slightly.

He could see perspiration at her hairline and temples, and lifted the edge of the sheet to wipe her face, putting an arm around her. She let him, but he could tell she didn't want him touching her, and he moved his arm after a few moments, sighing quietly to himself.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Do you remember what the dream was about?"

Scout shuddered, but shook her head. "No, not really. Just the usual, you know, something chasing me or whatever." She shrugged. "I'm fine now, honest." She tried to smile at George, but it was the ghost of her usual smile.

George was beyond frustrated. He wanted to help her, to be there for her, to do something, anything, but between her independence, and the fact that he had no idea what was wrong, he felt completely helpless. He was a multi-millionaire, with the world at his fingertips, and he couldn't help his pregnant girlfriend feel better, and it was killing him.

They lay back down, and just as George was drifting off to sleep, he heard Scout draw a deep breath that he could tell was from crying. He snapped the light back on and tried to turn her over, but she wouldn't turn. She was as far over on her side as she could get, too, which was odd.

"Scout? Dammit, what's wrong?" he asked urgently. "Please, darling, don't do this. Please? You're scaring me. Is something wrong that you're afraid to tell me? Oh god, what?" He couldn't keep the fear out of his voice.

She turned over, and he could see that her eyes were wet, and her nose was red.

"Oh, you poor little thing, what is it?" he asked, aghast. "Why can't you tell me? Is it the baby? Is something wrong with the baby? Are you in pain?"

Scout shook her head. "It's nothing like that, I promise," she said. "I can't--I can't talk about it, I feel too stupid, okay? I'm not someone who cries about shit, or talks about feelings and stuff, I don't know how to do it very well, you know? I feel like such an idiot--" She couldn't continue.

"Okay, okay, that's okay," George assured her. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, you don't. I'm not much into that sort of thing myself, to be honest." He reached out for her. "But you can surely accept comfort from someone, though, right? Hm?" He pulled her into his body, and she gratefully tucked her hot face into his neck, snuffing into his skin as he stroked her hair.

Scout tried to put the images and tactile memories of her vivid dream out of her mind, the way George looked and sounded as he enjoyed looking at his wife's gorgeous body, at her soft, curvy body. She tried not to think about his blissed out countenance as he watched himself fuck his wife, but she couldn't help it, and she just cried harder as she held on to George in their bed.

"Scout, you know you can tell me anything, you know that, right?" George murmured as he held her. "There's nothing you can't say to me."

She tried to make a sound of assent, but couldn't so she just nodded.

"God, I love you so much, Scout, I don't think even you realize how much I've come to love you in the short amount of time I've known you, you know?" George mused softly. His hand moved down to stroke her tummy. "And you're carrying our child inside you, which is so incredible to me. I mean, you and our little baby here are the most important people in the entire world to me, okay?" He gave her a little shake for emphasis. "So whatever it is that's got you so upset, if you feel you can't tell me, that's fine. I'll just hold you and comfort you, for as long as you want or need." And he wrapped his leg around her, pulling her even closer.

He reached behind himself, turning the light off again before putting his arm around her, kissing her forehead, moving his warm lips slowly down her face to finally land on her mouth.

Scout could feel that he wanted more, but more was beyond her. "I can't, I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Sh, don't be sorry," he reprimanded her gently. "Never be sorry about that, ever." And he kissed her again, pulling her firmly against his body. "Now lets sleep, okay? I don't want our baby to be born with an extra nostril or whatever because you didn't get enough rest."

He was gratified to hear Scout give her little, musical laugh, and he could feel her beautiful lips lift in a smile against his collarbones.

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

"You know, I was thinking about the holidays," George said to Scout. It was a few days later, a cold but sunny afternoon. She'd just come into the lounge after a solid morning spent in the library sorting books.

"Hey, I was wondering, are those shotguns in working condition?" Scout asked, pointing above the fireplace.

"Of course, George, I was thinking about the holidays, too," George responded to himself. "I'd never just ignore you and go off on an irrelevant tangent about firearms," he remarked.

"Sorry, of course I want to talk about the holidays," Scout replied, smiling, "but I've been wondering about those shotguns, too. I thought regular people couldn't own guns and stuff over here?" She reached over and grabbed the lower one from the clips that held it to the wall.

"Um, I don't know the exact laws and such," George admitted. "Those came with the house. I think they work. There are bullets in one of those drawers over there, I think." He pointed.

"Jesus, George, shells, shotguns take shells, not bullets," Scout corrected with a smile. She broke open the back of the gun and looked down the sight.

"You know about guns?" George asked, surprised.

"More than I care to," Scout admitted. "I'm not a fan of gun culture, but I was raised around them, so I learned." She replaced the gun above the fireplace, slid open the drawer and looked at the shells, then turned to George.

"What did you want to talk about? The holidays?" she reminded him.

He pulled her down so she was sitting next to him on the couch. "Well," he began with a smile. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to spend my first Christmas with you and our baby without you and our baby, you know?" He smiled at his words. "So I was hoping we could split our time, maybe do Christmas with my family and do New Year with yours?" He looked anxiously at her. "I'm sorry, is that presumptuous of me? To assume we'd spend the holidays together?"

She shook her head. "No. I think that sounds lovely. You haven't told them anything, have you?"

He shook his head. "Though I think some things have begun to percolate through to the tabloids in London. My mum asked me yesterday if I've been seeing someone, which is kind of an odd question for her to be asking since I haven't stirred from Farraway Mist for the past year and a half." He stroked Scout's hair meditatively as he looked into the fire. "I'm also going to have to meet with my team while were there. In London, I mean. The publicity machine's going to have to ramp up a bit next year, and I'm afraid you're not going to be able to avoid being a part of that whole mess."

He looked at Scout regretfully. "I apologize in advance for the hell it's going to bring into your life," he said. "I mean, I'll shield you and the baby from as much of it as I can, but when I'm working, it becomes unavoidable, I'm afraid."

Scout wondered if he regretted choosing someone like her instead of like his glamorous first wife to be his girlfriend, the mother of his child. Obviously for Tessa Richardson being photographed and dealing with fans and paparazzi was second nature. She thought of the scrapbooks.

She'd snuck up there a few more times to look through them. They'd been meticulously put together, documenting, sometimes on a weekly, almost daily basis, the Wilder's lives, in Monte Carlo, in Cannes, in London, Ibiza, Fiji, Los Angeles. It was completely alien to Scout, who'd spent her life sailing in Bar Harbor and attending library openings in New York City.

She was brought back to the sunny, warm lounge at Farraway Mist and George, who hugged her. "Scout? You okay? You were a million miles away just now."

She shrugged. "I'm fine." She pulled her cardigan more closely around her slender shoulders. "Just felt a chill." She rose abruptly. "Going for a quick walk around the front garden while the sun's out."

George looked at her. "I thought you said you were cold?" But she was already gone.

Scout exited the house through the heavy and rarely-used front doors, taking deep breaths, trying to clear her head of the images that had come crowding in, of Tessa Richardson Wilder, looking tan and glamorous. She stood still, listening to the wind in the trees that surrounded the lawn, looking down the drive that led to the road to the village. She heard clicking, and turned to see Jess, paws up on the large windows of the front room, watching her. Her muzzle, showing a bit of gray, was leaving condensation on the glass, and her ears were pricked attentively in Scout's direction.

That's when Scout heard the laughter.

A woman's laughter, low, mocking, seductive, the derisive sound of someone laughing at, definitely not someone laughing with.

It was coming from the small stand of hawthorn on the north end of the yard, and Scout stared into the shadows, trying to see the source of the sound. She took a few steps toward it, and the laughter abruptly stopped, only to start again, a few seconds later, almost directly behind her, from high in the branches of a Cornish Elm, the same, jeering tone.

There was no way any living creature could've moved that quickly.

Scout whirled and stared up into the tree for a few seconds before taking fast steps back to the door of the house. She could hear Jess barking madly through the door, and both dogs came tearing out when she opened it, running directly to the elm, looking up into it and continuing to bark.

George came running through the door a few seconds later.

"Are you okay?" he asked, reaching for her.

"I'm fine," Scout assured him.

"What are they barking at?" George asked, staring.

Scout looked at the dogs, then back at George, shrugging.

"I don't know, probably a squirrel or something," she said. "Come on, let's have some tea, I'm cold." She shivered.

George nodded and put an arm around her. He whistled for the dogs and they entered the house together.