First Sight

1

She hears Helen's words through a foggy haze, senses her confusion as she mirrors back Mummy's own ramblings: "Shhhh... In between boy? Baby for the baby?" Someone is caressing her hand trying to calm her down.

The touch of a hand on hers. It reminds her of the touch of his hand. The very first time was an accidental brush against hers as they both went to take the same Martini glass from the sideboard at Daddy's University New Year's Eve party. There were mostly professors, the occasional wife and family, and graduate students there; bright young men, gauche and awkward, but clever, ambitious, and full of such promise. They were all keen to attend the great explorer's party and make an impression on him. She was sure this one was just another. His dark olive green suit made his eyes gleam slightly green, and his red tie was tightly knotted. He looked neat and respectable. But there was something different about him, something wild and untamed. He somehow looked older than his years, like he had experienced more of life than the average graduate student.

There was no denying the shock of his touch. Electric, despite her quickly withdrawing her hand. He took the drink and handed it to her smiling.

"I believe this one is yours, Mademoiselle"

He was attractive, confident, charming, and his attention was turned to her exclusively. She blushed, taking the glass, but ensuring her hand brushed his as she coquettishly looked at him through lowered lashes, smiling coyly.

"I am Miss Jones" She held out the hand without the drink.

"I know.” His appraising gaze swept the length of her body, and she involuntary looked down to check she was indeed still dressed. “The great explorer's beautiful daughter." Smiling, he took her hand and rather than shake it, raised it to his lips placing a soft, courteous kiss across the back of her fingers.

She took in a quick breath at the touch of his lips. Yes, this one was charming and dangerous. How unexpected. Not at all like her fiancé who was rather nice and safe. Very straight, as the saying went. She remembered the first time she tried to undo his trousers after they had kissed for a while in the car; how he was very shocked. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh at the memory of Siger Holmes' reaction. But this one. She just had a feeling it would take a lot to shock him. She was surprised at the appeal of that as a worthy challenge. There was a boldness about him she rather liked, as those eyes smouldered at her above her hand.

"I am James."

Oh, a rather common name for such an uncommon man.

Mummy turned in the bed muttering "Uncommon, commonly uncommon, dear. Mmm, darling, becoming uncommonly unbecoming, young lady..."

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2

Mummy drifted in and out of consciousness. Her hip was sore and ached. The drugs helped a little but made her feel woozy. Sleep helped, but the dreams were strange; strange, yet familiar.

She remembered it was New Year's Eve. Sherry and Helen had visited. There were drinks at New Year - a party. Yes, it was a lovely party. But her hip ached - no not her hip, her feet, that's right.

The handsome young man had spoken to her for over an hour from that martini encounter. It was a delightful conversation, and she was sorry in a way that her duties as daughter of the host and hostess required her to leave him and circulate more. Too much circulation - her feet were killing her, although glancing at her pretty bowed party shoes, she almost thought it was worth it.

When she was sure nobody was looking, she slipped out and found the vast empty library room with its two storeys of book-lined walls and dim shadows of spiral staircases in the last of the summer evening light. She loved this room. Flopping down on the divan at the far end, her many layers of party dress spreading fan-like around her, she kicked off her shoes and groaned loudly at the blessed freedom for her toes.

"Are you in pain, Mademoiselle?"

Startled, she traced the voice to the dim figure as he stepped forward from the shadows, book in hand, concern written on his face. James again. The young man with the common name, but so uncommon countenance. Tongue-tied at being caught out, she blushed a pretty pink.

"No, no. My feet are just... well... um..." Attack was the best defence. "What are you doing in here? Alone?" She quickly scanned the room more closely to verify they were indeed alone in the lengthening shadows.

He approached the divan, placing the now closed book on the side table and indicating the end of the divan, where her feet rested. "May I?" She nodded, withdrawing her legs under her skirts a little so he could sit. He sat slightly closer than she had anticipated, lifting her feet onto his lap with warm hands. There it was again, that jolt. She bit her lower lip to stop gasping like a silly school girl at so simple a thing as his touch.

"I was bored. After our conversation ended, the party seemed..." he considered, eyes cast skyward watching the clouds through the windows, finally resting them on her face "...pointless." His smouldering gaze burnt to her very core while her feet warmed in his grasp.

"So, you came in here to escape, too?"

"Yes. Come for the books...." He began to caress her feet, gently rubbing her aching toes through the tips of her stockings. "...but stay for the knowledge." He tilted his head to one side as he gazed at her, as if somewhere in his mind there was a question.

Oh, she knew how wrong this was, that she should get up and leave. No, first slap his smug face and then leave. But those hands and their strong fingers provided such relief from more than just an immediate physical ache. Exhaling heavily, she gave a small moan of delight as he kneaded her arch with his knuckles. He smiled, far too pleased with his success, she thought. Two could play at this. Taking the foot he wasn't massaging, she provocatively scrunched the toes into his lap, delighting to see his eyes widen as she hit her mark. She was even more pleased to hear his breath hitch as she began to rub her foot back and forth slowly. His response was to daringly move his hand up under layers of tulle to tickle her calf, caress her knee.

And roll her onto her side. No, that wasn't right. Mummy groggily opened her eyes to see a nurse in white. "You were groaning. Is that better, dearie? You seemed in pain."

Oh the pain, yes the pain was washing back over her now, and her pain wasn't all physical - her emotions were in turmoil as she perched on the cusp of a decades-old realisation.

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Earlier that afternoon...

3

 Lying in her hospital bed, Mummy stared at the ceiling and thought about how she had got here. Sherrinford Holmes. Always her dark boy, her eldest, the one with the biggest chip on his shoulder. There was so much rage within him, brilliance, yes, but clouded with uncertainty, as if he doubted himself more than she ever could.

What had his father told him? Is that why he despised her with such primal anger and hatred? He would be aware that he looked different from his two brothers, moved differently, more wolf-like, darker, more emotive. More children. Why did he have to be the son determined to elicit progeny? She sighed. She was sure Siger Holmes never knew her doubts about their eldest. Or had he suspected?

She would never know now.

And she had been having the strangest dreams from that time; things long forgotten. But there was still something missing... something about her mysterious stranger she had overlooked in the fond memory from all those years ago. She had never forgotten that dusky summer evening, how could she, with the confusion and uncertainty it would cause her for the rest of her life?

She could not really excuse herself with the folly of youth. She was young, yes, and daring, more so, but folly suggested regret, and she just couldn’t bring herself... she fought the sleepiness as her eyes closed and her mind drifted. The world around her turned to the memory of shadows and warm hands undulating up her thigh; fingers teasingly run under the band of a stocking top, tickling bare skin.

She had forgotten that her feet hurt. He seemed to have forgotten that her feet hurt also. There was something about him; about the way he looked at her. She had no words for it. Anyway, she had always believed actions speak so much louder. He turned further towards her, a knee on the divan, his body hovering above hers: distant, but close; elusive, but inviting. His hands emerged from under her skirts to follow the curves of her hip and waist, sliding around her back to pull her up against him. It was a smooth play, but just at its conclusion he hesitated as he searched her face, trying to reach a decision.

She understood his reticence. He was at the party to impress her father, no doubt, like all the other ambitious young men. If he knew who she was, then he would also know she was engaged, had undoubtedly noticed the ring on her finger anyway.

And as she gazed back she wondered what was driving her in such recklessness. Was it just further exploration of her newly awakened passion with her erstwhile reticent fiancé? She had convinced Siger that as the wedding was soon to go ahead, there was not much sense in waiting. She thought he had conceded more to please her than himself. So was this madness she contemplated merely an opportunistic exploration now she had a more forthright accomplice? Was she rebelling against a family betrothal she had long been denied any say in? And what if the comparison was not to her liking? Or more precisely was too much to her liking? She had all but decided she didn’t want to go through with the wedding. She had not yet told Siger, although forgetting to tell him about this party was subconsciously the first step in that plan she realised.

She wound her arms around James’ neck and reached up toward him, looking at him hungrily, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She could feel the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest from her excited breathing. It was easy to guess the thought processes as he calculated the risk. She was sure they both understood this was a one-off encounter. Such brazen behaviour with the explorer’s daughter, then, would not impress her father, however encouraged by her. Maybe Daddy wouldn't find out, but that would be giving her unacceptable power over him. In essence he must choose today between having a career opportunity or having her. It was too much to ask. Could anyone desire her enough to make that choice?

As he lowered his lips onto hers, devouring and claiming her, she received both his answer and a kiss as she had never experienced before, passionately consuming and consumed. His body followed, pressing her into the divan, making her melt into smooth velvet, his hands seeking to expose the seams where ribbons of hot white lust suggested a thread, which if pulled, would unravel her completely. Covering her throat and neck with kisses, the magic of his touch was enhanced by the dreamy light of the early evening, turning the room orange and red. His tongue wickedly explored her cleavage as he unzipped her dress and slid it down around her waist, continuing his downward denuding as he removed her remaining underwear. She pulled at his tie, pulled at his jacket, pulled at his shirt, pulled at his belt, pulled at his trousers, until she could pull his skin, exposed as a delicious strip from neck to groin, onto her own. Strange that her own state of semi-undress was a horizontal gathering of silk and chiffon at her waist, her breasts, hips, and legs exposed to his adept hands, while his was a vertical pillar she could ravenously glide her hands up and down.

They melted into one, and the encounter made her body sing. Was it like this because they were being daringly intimate where they could easily be discovered at any minute? Was it the wickedness of abandoning her betrothal? Was it knowing how early his desire burned by the way he had undressed her with his eyes the hour they had talked? Was it that she knew no more about him than his first name? Or was it simply him?

She had no answers. She needed no answers. This was the pure joy of living in the moment. Carpe diem. Consequences be damned!

And how the consequences had been damned... With no way of discreetly finding out who he was, or where he disappeared to after that night, that mad interlude with a stranger had ironically sealed her fate with her husband to be. Marriage was the only socially safe option for a woman finding herself in her condition. She saw no way out of it. And Mr Holmes was both present and willing to accept that the consequences were from his own actions. Perhaps they were. They each had an even chance. She had no way of telling James, and could never tell her husband. It was her secret, and one better forgotten...

But lingering there, among the burning kisses, the adroit hands, the sensual touch of skin on skin, slick from summer's warmth and passion's heat, there was something more she had forgotten. Lost for so long. A word. An important clue.

Uneasy in her hospital bed, Mummy moaned at the memory of that one encounter. Remembering how he made her hungry and wild, remembering the cry of his own pleasure mingled with hers. As he lay beside her afterwards, nibbling at her ear, his voice satiated and soft like velvet chocolate with his final words whispered to delight and tickle... "I will never stop thinking of you, my voracious vixen."

Like lightning Mummy sits bolt upright, crying out in pain, not so much from the pressure on her pinned broken hip - although that certainly hurt - but from the realisation that Sherrinford Holmes possibly had running in his veins more evil and cruelty than she feared in even her worst nightmares.

And she could never tell him this truth…