Chapter Three
Contrary to what Buffy was thinking, Spike WAS dreaming, although he was still wide-awake. Lying on his bed, the one he hadn’t slept in for well over a hundred years, he couldn’t get the sight of Buffy in her tee shirt out of his mind. He could smell her scent all over him and if he shut his eyes, he could still feel her warmth as she pressed her body against his.
She was such an incredible combination of soft femininity and Slayer strength that his whole body ached to feel her against him again. With his eyes shut, he could almost feel her as he inhaled her scent off his chest. With a growl, he buried his head in his pillow, ordering his body to stop wanting what it couldn’t have.
His body wasn’t listening, though, and his throbbing cock told him he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep this morning. He groaned and gave in to the demands, wrapping one of his large hands around the turgid shaft and pulling up and down. With Buffy’s scent so heavy in his nostrils, and her heartbeat still audible as she went down the stairs, it didn’t take long before he was arching off the bed and spurting into the sheet he was holding in his other hand.
He gave a satisfied sigh, and turned over to try to catch some more sleep before tackling the problem of when they were and how they were going to get back. Pulling the pillow into his chest, he dozed off with a small smile on his face and his arms wrapped around an imaginary Slayer.
Blissfully unaware of the effect she’d had on the vampire, Buffy prowled around the lower floor of the house, lightly touching things that caught her attention and absorbing the feeling of the house. It was pretty obvious that Spike’s whole “I’ve always been bad” persona was a sham. The house definitely had an air of genteel poverty about it. She could see that some of the furniture was worn in places and the clothes in his mother’s room were of good quality, but well-worn.
At the same time, the size of the house, the paintings and other art objects, and the tarnished silver tea set on the dining room buffet told her that they had obviously seen better times. She wandered into the kitchen, her growling stomach reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since the previous night’s dinner. There was, of course, no refrigerator, although it took her a few minutes of searching to realize with an embarrassed flush that she was looking for an appliance that did not yet exist.
She was just starting out the door to the garden, hoping that there might be some fruit or vegetables ready for picking, when she was startled by the appearance of a portly middle-aged woman and a younger, but strongly built man. With a “whoops!” Buffy retreated to the kitchen, closing the door quickly on the advancing couple. She backed up to the far wall, hoping against hope that they weren’t planning to come in the house.
(Damn Spike! I knew he was going to get us in trouble. There are people living here and now we’re going to be arrested or thrown out, or something.)
When the door opened to admit the frowning woman and her companion, Buffy offered a tentative smile and small wave as she said brightly, “Uh, hi, there!”
The woman gave her a cold look, her frown deepening as her eyes ran over the dress Buffy was wearing and she recognized it as one she had seen before.
“Who are you and what are you doing in Mr. Sinclair’s house – and wearing poor Mrs., God rest her soul, Sinclair’s gown?”
The rather strong looking woman was advancing on her threateningly and Buffy was wondering if she should use her Slayer speed to escape or just wait and see if she would need it to keep from being thrown out the door bodily.
“It is quite alright, Cook,” she heard a familiar voice behind her, “This is my wife, the new Mrs. Sinclair. She is wearing Mother’s gown because our luggage was stolen and we have nothing with us but what we had on our backs last night.”
Buffy turned around, knowing it was Spike speaking, but completely thrown by his accent and the explanation for her presence. She gawked at the sight of him in tight fitting trousers and a loose shirt very similar to the clothing he’d been wearing in her dream. Before she could respond, he took her arm in a very strong grip and turned her back toward the now smiling woman, putting his other arm around her shoulder as he introduced her.
“Darling, this is Mrs. Barstow, better known in the Sinclair household as “Cook”. She has been with us since I was a small child.”
Inwardly seething at his easy familiarity, Buffy gritted her teeth and sputtered, “How nice to meet you.”
She tried to pull away from Spike’s iron grip, but he held on and squeezed her in warning.
“Let me go, I’ll behave,” she hissed low enough for only his vampire hearing. “You don’t have to hold on to me like I’m a possession.”
Spike let go of her arm with a low warning growl and edged his way into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the patches of sunlight coming in the windows. He was suddenly very grateful for Victorian stuffiness as he realized that in any other time the old family servant would have been hugging him, and, as shrewd as Cook was, no doubt picking up on his lack of body heat and heart beat. He nodded briefly when she introduced her grandson, saying he had seen the lights the night before and offered to accompany her to the house to be sure everything was all right.
“That was very thoughtful of you, George. And we certainly do appreciate it. I can see that you’ve taken your responsibilities quite seriously,” he added, turning to Cook with a smile. “Everything looks just as I left it.”
“I’ve done my best, sir,” she said with a worried air. “But if I had known you were coming…”
“It’s quite all right. It was actually a rather spontaneous decision on my part. I wanted Mrs. Sinclair to see my home country and the house in which I grew up.”
She turned to Buffy and looked her up and down with interest.
“You’re not from here, then?” she inquired politely.
Answering for Buffy, who was still somewhat thunderstruck by the whole conversation, he said, “No. Buffy is from America. This is her first trip out of her own country, so we must make some allowances for her and help her become accustomed to our ways.”
Mrs. Barstow nodded in understanding and immediately began thinking out loud.
“Well, then, she’ll need a lady’s maid, and of course a dressmaker if you’ve lost your luggage. And I’ll need to get some girls in here to dust and air the house out. It’s very stuffy from being closed for so long. And, you’ll be needing some food….Oh my! It’s almost noon and you’ve had nothing to eat!”
She bustled over to the table and began jotting down things she would need from the market, at the same time telling George to get some men to work out in the yard and garden. Spike disappeared for a minute, coming back to hand George a couple of handwritten notes.
“Before you worry about the yard,” he said smoothly, “I will need for you to take these notes to my solicitor and to the bank. Your grandmother will need money for all this food she is intending to purchase.”
“Yessir,” George replied, ducking his head in respect. “I’ll take them right now.”
After answering Buffy’s timid question about whether there was anything edible growing in the garden, Mrs. Barstow hustled off to order the supplies she was going to need to feed them and to get some servants in to clean the house.
Once they were along again, Buffy whirled on the vampire to demand, “Wife? You couldn’t come up with anything better than your WIFE?”
“No,” he growled. “I couldn’t. Go pick yourself something to eat so you aren’t so cranky, and I’ll explain it to you.”
He turned and stomped back into the main part of the house, heading for the library, which he knew got no direct sun at any time of the day. He slammed down into an overstuffed chair, wondering why he was so angry at Buffy’s reaction to having to pretend to be his wife.
“It’s not like I’m asking you to sleep in my bed,” he was growling when the flushed Slayer entered the room with a handful of small fruits.
“Really?” she asked in a chilly tone. “Exactly where will they be expecting your wife to sleep, then?” The disbelief was clear in both her expression and her voice and only the knowledge that the chip would fry his brain kept him from smacking the look off her face.
Instead, he took a deep breath and said as calmly as he could, “This is Victorian England, pet. No one has sex – not that they allow anyone to know about, anyway. Should any of the servants be upstairs, they won’t blink an eye at your sleeping in another room. They will just assume I visit you when I get the urge to assert my marriage rights.”
“Oh,” she said, somewhat deflated by his ready explanation. “Well, I still don’t see why you had to call me your wife. Couldn’t I be a distant cousin or something?”
“Again, you’re not understanding the times. There is no way a young, unmarried woman could live in my house without a full-time chaperone. Nor could she go out and about in the city, as you will undoubtedly have to do at some point if we are to find a way back from here. As my wife, you will be free to go places and conduct business for me during daylight hours.”
He glared at her challengingly and she finally shrugged and said more meekly than he’d expected, “Oh. Well, okay, I guess that makes sense then. But don’t expect to be exercising any rights around me!” she finished with what she hoped was a haughty glare.
“Don’t flatter yourself, pet. If I want to get my rocks off, I know where to go around here. I prefer my women skilled and willing. Not ice queens.”
He stood up angrily and missed the startled, hurt look that crossed her face at his words.
“Well, as long as you know where to find the ho’s, then I guess you’ll be happy,” she snapped back, smothering the urge to pout at his angry dismissal.
“Know exactly where to find them,” he said, leaving the room and heading for his bedroom. “I’m going back to sleep,” he threw down the stairs at her, as she followed him. “Wake me up when George comes back with some money, or if the solicitor shows up.”
“I’m not your servant!” she yelled up at him. “Wake yourself up!”
“You’re my wife, Slayer. Same thing almost.”
His laughter echoed down the stairs as he closed the door to his bedroom, leaving her fuming with nobody to take it out on.
A long walk in the over grown garden, enjoying the warm sun, and she was much calmer about their situation.
“It’s not like we haven’t been close before,” she muttered to herself, taking a vicious swipe at a weed. “I mean we were engaged, for cripe’s sake. I can stand pretending to be Mrs. William the Bloody for a few days.”
She wandered back to the house to find that Cook had returned with several boys in tow, all laden with bags and boxes of food stuffs. With nothing else to do, Buffy followed her around, watching as she put potatoes and onions in the cool root cellar, and flour and rice in the large canisters. When she saw Buffy staring hungrily at the loaf of bread she’d brought in, she immediately insisted on cutting off several slices of both bread and cheese for her.
“You need to put some meat on those bones,” she said cheerfully, adding a glass of cool, clear water from the pump to the food. “The master won’t want me to let you get any thinner than you already are.”
“The Master?” said Buffy with a squeak. Unpleasant memories of her first year in Sunnydale providing unbidden thoughts of master vampires and their minions.
“Yes,” the older woman answered with a puzzled frown. “Young Mr. Sinclair. He’s been the master of the household since his father died. Whether he lives here or not, he is the master of this house.”
“Oh, yeah, I knew that,” Buffy agreed quickly, embarrassed at appearing so ignorant in front of the other woman. Changing the subject, she asked quietly, “Tell me about Sp- er – William when he was a child.”
“Oh, such a sweet boy, he was…” The cook immediately began to reminisce about the days when Spike’s father and sister were still alive and the house rang with laughter. “He was so naughty sometimes, but then he would look at you with those beautiful blue eyes and you just hated to scold him. Of course, I would never tell him that,” she added with a conspirator’s wink. “He was already his mother’s pride and joy. It wouldn’t have done to let him know we all loved him as much as she did.”
Her face darkened and she frowned lightly as she continued, “Of course after the master died, things were harder. William was too young to take his place in the business world and his mother so wanted him to complete his schooling. If it weren’t for the scholarship, I’m afraid Oxford would have been out of the question. As it was, things became more and more difficult for the Mrs. Then, when his sister died and his mother became ill, he had to give up his studies and come home to take care of her. Quite a shame, it was. “
She shook her head, tsking in sympathetic distress and completely missing Buffy’s opened mouthed shock.
(OXFORD? Spike? MY Spike went to Oxford? On a SCHOLARSHIP?)
She was saved from having to make an intelligible reply by a knocking on the kitchen door. Mrs. Barstow opened it to admit a plump young woman with rosy cheeks and dancing eyes.
“Ah, there you are!” she exclaimed. “It took you long enough.”
“I’m sorry, Auntie,” she said breathlessly. “I came as soon as I could.”
“Mrs. Sinclair, this is my niece, Molly. She has some limited experience as a lady’s maid and should be able to assist you until we can find someone more experienced. At least you will have someone to help with your dress and your hair, as well as to accompany you shopping.”
“Shopping?” asked Buffy, picking up on the only familiar thing in the conversation. “There’s shopping?”
“Well, yes, of course you’ll go shopping. Mr. Sinclair indicating your luggage was lost, so you will have to replace everything. Molly can show you to the better shops and help you find what you’ll like.”
(Shopping. With Sp – William’s money. This could be more fun than I thought.)
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