"You can't wait outside in this, you'll make yourself ill," she told him, pushing at the very limits of her self-control to keep it together. "Hang your coat here," she suggested, patting the bannister, "and come through. I'll put the kettle on." She offered her visitor a nod and turned to lead the way through the house, barely even glancing around as she passed through the living room and dining room, feeling the portrait's eyes on her as she went.

"Thank you," he said again, tucking the wet paper under an arm as he hung his coat on the bannister as he was told. He shuddered a moment with chill, before moving to follow her through the house, turning his head to take in his surroundings. It was when he passed through the dining room that he came to a halt, his gaze falling on the portrait that was leaning against the wall, there on the floor. He could see the outline on the wall where it must have hung once, but he had no way of knowing how long ago it had been removed or why. There was something about it that caught his eye, that made him freeze in place, the chill creeping its way up his spine once again.

Barefoot, Kit moved into the kitchen, pausing a moment to remove the bloodied cloth from her hand. The little wound had stopped bleeding, though she really should dress it soon. Her first concern, however, was taking care of the man who had asked for help. A man who was the spitting image of Captain Randal Nichols, who had taught her how to love and who had loved her, despite having been dead for nearly a century. She leaned against the counter for a moment, shaking her head as she turned to pick up the phone from its cradle. It was only then that she realized her visitor hadn't followed her. "Hello?"

He seemed almost spellbound for a moment as he contemplated that portrait, a small wrinkle between his eyebrows that was very reminiscent of her Randal. "I'm sorry," he said, gesturing toward the portrait. "Who is she" She looks familiar somehow, but I can't place her."

Kit's eyes turned to the portrait, and her expression turned murderously cold. Three days of being all alone had not endeared Isabelle to her any. "When that was painted, she was called Isabelle Nichols," she told him, her voice hard and without much emotion at all. "Her husband built this house for her." She didn't elaborate, loyalty to her captain overwhelming any wish to air Isabelle's idiocy in front of a stranger, no matter how much he resembled her Randal. She offered him the phone. "Here. Kettle's boiling - tea?"

"Nichols?" he echoed, jerking his head her way, with a startled look on his face. "That's strange," he said, looking back at the portrait for a moment before moving on to join her in the kitchen. It was only then that he seemed to notice that the woman whose home he'd intruded was bleeding. "You're hurt," he said, ignoring the phone for the moment and reaching for her hand instead.

She almost flinched when he reached for her hand, forcing herself to let him take a look at her tiny wound. "I slipped when you knocked on the door," she explained. "It's nothing, it just needs covering up." His touch wasn't helping her keep her calm - it reminded her of three nights before, when a man who had looked just like him had almost begged her to let him make love to her, and she, like an idiot, had said no.

"Then we shall cover it up," he remarked, matter-of-factly with a slightly disarming smile. "We can't have it getting infected, can we" It will only take a minute. Do you have any bandages and antiseptic?" he asked, tilting his head to take a closer look at the wound. She was right - it wasn't serious, but it did need tending to.

She stared at him, not entirely sure what she had been expecting there. Her ghostly captain would have insisted she look to it herself, for her own sake, but a truly modern man usually accepted that she would deal with a problem on her own time and in her own way. She wasn't used to modern-day gentlemen. "Um ....the first-aid kit's in my workshop," she stuttered, a little disconcerted. Drawing her hand out of his, she gestured vaguely in the right direction with the phone she had forgotten she was holding. That smile of his had confused her. "Oh ....you wanted to use the phone."

"Yes, well....Why don't you fetch the first aid kit and I'll make my phone call, then we'll patch your hand up lickety-split," he suggested with a smile that was a little too much like Randal's, when he did smile. This man seemed a little more easy-going than her captain, a little less moody. "I assure you, I mean you no harm," he said, realizing suddenly that he hadn't introduced himself yet, and he offered a hand. "I'm Randal. Randal Nichols, though my friends call me Rand." Never Randy, though sometimes Nick.

Kit froze once again, her eyes wide as she stared up at him. "Randal Nichols," she repeated in disbelief, pulling back from him as though he might suddenly turn into a rattlesnake and bite her. Her hands rose as she shook her head suddenly. "This isn't happening." Gesticulating wildly with her hands, she turned and marched sharply from the room, snatching up her trusty steak knife as she went. From the dining room, she could be heard very clearly. "You think this is funny, you cold-hearted bitch' Is this your idea of revenge for the fact that you couldn't have been good enough even if you'd tried?"

His eyes widened as she snatched up the knife and he stepped clear out of her path, afraid for a moment that he'd wandered into some kind of nightmare. Was she crazy' Was she going to try and kill him' He didn't want to hurt a woman, but if he'd do what he had to do to protect himself. But then, she was storming right past him and into the dining room to confront someone he hadn't seen there. He followed her, intrigued and a little bit frightened, his heart racing inside his chest. She was a lovely little thing, but she seemed to be stark raving mad.

What he found was the lovely little thing threatening the fallen portrait with her knife, heedless of the blood flowing again from her little cut. "You broke him, you shattered him, he needed you and you walked away," she was shouting at the portrait. "And now this! You gave him false hope, you let him think he had a second chance, and all you were doing was setting us up to fall! I hate you, Isabelle Nichols, you hear me" I hope you rot in Purgatory for eternity, you two-faced lying cow!" Her arm reared back, lashing forward with the clear aim of slicing through the canvas that held the woman's likeness.

There was that frown of concern again, though she was little more than a stranger. Her story was crazy, yes, but there was some truth in it, at least as far as she was concerned. She believed it, and that was all that mattered for now. Perhaps she was mad, perhaps not, but he couldn't deny the strange feeling of familiarity he had in the house or with her. "It's just a car, Kit," he reminded her, turning to look out the window. It had long since gotten dark. There would be no one to call now, except perhaps a cab to take him to a hotel for the night. And yet, she seemed to need him here - or need someone.

"Well, I could call a taxi," he suggested, not wanting to intrude any more than he already had. He remembered the look in her eyes when she'd had the knife in her hand and had to stifle a shudder. If he looked like her lover, she wouldn't try to kill him, would she" He could call a cab and be long gone from here in a matter of minutes, never to return. Part of him thought that was the wise thing to do. Why then was another part of him resisting that wisdom"

She bit her lip, the old fear of being alone with someone, anyone, rearing its head for a moment before she pushed it aside. "I have plenty of spare bedrooms," she offered quietly. "All of which lock from the inside." Yes, she could easily imagine how dangerous he thought she was after witnessing her attack on Isabelle's portrait. "There's even a couple here on the ground floor, in case you'd like an alternative escape route."

She seemed as sane as him now, despite the crazy story. There had to be a logical explanation for all this, though at the moment, he wasn't sure what that was. "That's very kind of you. Are you sure it's no trouble?" he asked, going with his gut feeling and against his own inner logic.

"I'm sure." She even managed a faint smile for him as she spoke. "You've been very kind to me, and I know I must have frightened you earlier. You'll be safe in this house, I promise you that. Nothing will hurt you." Did she realize she was repeating the promise the ghostly Randal had made to her" It didn't seem as though she did, moving to her feet. "Let me find some spare blankets. It gets cold in the early hours around here."

"Your hand," he reminded her, gesturing toward her injured and towel-wrapped hand. "It should really be cleaned and bandaged. The offer is still open. I'm not a doctor, but I'm not afraid of blood either."

She looked down at the cloth wrapped about her hand, a rueful glimmer touching her half-smile. "I'm not usually clumsy when I'm working," she admitted, not entirely sure why she was offering this information. "Outside my workshop, I can trip over anything, even if it isn't there anymore." She snorted faintly, surprised by now normal this felt. "Give me a moment. I'll get the kit. Thank you."

"Of course," he replied, allowing her to go fetch the first aid kit while he further contemplated the situation over his cup of tea. He wasn't sure what she meant by her workshop or what her work involved, but he took her at her word. He assumed she was an artisan of some kind, a painter perhaps, though that didn't seem to fit her for some reason. Besides, how would a painter manage an injury such as hers" No, not a painter, something else.

He glanced over at the phone, wondering if he should make that call after all, but thought better of it. It was late and storming and unlikely he'd get anyone to help him now, save this lovely but obviously broken woman.

There was a wafting smell of pine wood and sawdust as she stepped in through a door halfway down the corridor between the kitchen and the front door, and again as she came back out, clutching what looked like a very robust first aid kit. She switched that room's light off as she came back into sight - it seemed as though she wouldn't be returning to work tonight, at least. Rejoining him, she laid the kit on the table, sitting down once again. "Thank you for offering to do this," she said once again, far easier to be around now she was calmer. "It would be a little tricky by myself."

He blinked out of his thoughts as she returned, turning to face her and recovering that look of kindness on his face. "It's the least I can do, I'm afraid, since you've offered to give me shelter for the night," he said, as he opened the kit and rummaged around for a few things. "What sort of work do you do, Kit?" he asked, curiously, catching that scent of wood that seemed to follow wherever she went. He'd caught that same scent while he'd been holding her, but the source of it hadn't yet occurred to him.

"I'm a sculptor, I suppose you'd call it," she mused thoughtfully. "I carve wood, whether it's statues or relief work, or even ornate decoration. I don't know if you're local, but the altar piece at the Church of the Holy Family down the road is one of mine." She seemed proud of this, but couldn't raise a smile for the feeling. "What about you? What does a bedraggled driver do with his time?"

"Oh," he said, as if he was surprised, though he really wasn't. He'd had a feeling she was an artist of some kind, but it hadn't occurred to him that she might work with wood. He thought he should make it a point to visit the church in question when he had time. "I'm not local. Not yet anyway," he said, as he very carefully unwrapped the towel from around her hand and examined the wound once again. "This is going to sting a little," he warned as he poured out some antiseptic onto a bit of gauze. "I'm from London originally," he continued, not yet offering an explanation why he was in Hastings or what he did for a living.

Her laugh was a little mirthless. "I stabbed myself in the hand with a chisel, I think I can handle a little antiseptic," she assured him almost comically. It wasn't lost on her that he hadn't actually answered her question, in a very familiar way. Was she being punished for falling in love with an impossibility' Was that what was happening here" She swallowed against any more tears, unsure if she could even cry any longer, and focused herself on his words. "Not yet' Planning on moving here?"

"I'm afraid I don't have much choice. I'm a solicitor, and I'm being transferred here to our Hastings office. It's a good opportunity, or so I'm told." He shrugged in that same way that her captain would shrug when he was trying to make light of something. "There's nothing left for me in London, anyway," he added, furrowing his brows as he tended her little injury, dabbing it with antiseptic to clean it far more gently than was necessary, as if she might break.

She watched him as he worked on her hand, her eyes hungrily drinking in every detail of his face, his mannerisms, as eagerly noting the few differences as much as the many similarities. Perhaps it was a form of torture, perhaps not. But with him there, she felt ....better. Not so alone. "Well, Hastings sometimes feels like the arse end of nowhere, but we're less than an hour from Brighton if you feel the need for night life, and not even that far from London if you want to visit," she offered, more to keep the conversation going than anything. Her eyes narrowed a little as he offered up a small hint of his life, silently cursing whatever woman had been stupid enough to let him get away.

"The King's Room," he repeated, the smile widening a little into an amused smirk. He noticed the blush, but had no idea it was because of him, though he found her shyness charming. It wasn't very often that he made someone blush - certainly not someone as adorable as her. "That sounds rather important. I assure you I would be perfectly comfortable on the couch."

"Well, I could put you in the Queen's Room, but I think you may be a little too masculine to be able to cope with all the frills and ruffles I haven't been able to get rid of yet," she teased, surprising herself yet again. He wasn't her Randal, and yet she felt more comfortable with him than she had with anyone who wasn't Randal for years. "Why sleep on a couch when I have a house full of rooms lying empty?" she pointed out as they found themselves on the next floor. She automatically turned toward her own bedroom before catching herself. "No, hold on ....your room is this way," she corrected herself, turning to head in the appropriate direction.

He hadn't thought to grab his luggage before leaving the car, more worried about getting in out of the rain than about his toothbrush and pajamas. He left his coat on the bannister to dry as they walked past and up the stairs, careful not to let his gaze linger too long on the feminine figure that was leading him up the stairs or he'd feel himself flush with embarrassment. "I can't argue with that, I suppose," he admitted as he followed along behind her. He hadn't noticed at first how big the house was until just now, passing room after room, and door after door, which led he didn't know where.

The room she led him to wasn't too far away from the stairs, thankfully, and was fully equipped with a modern bed and mattress under the artificial lights. "There's a bathroom through there," she offered, pointing toward a second door in the wall of the room, which was decorated in shades of red and burnt orange, warm and inviting. Shaking out the blankets, she worked on making the bed. "You can take the key out of the lock and use it on this side, too," she added.

He looked over the room, finding it satisfactory - more than satisfactory, really. It was almost as if it was from another era, another age. It was almost like he'd been drawn back in time, though there seemed to be modern amenities. "You don't have to do that," he told her abruptly as he followed her into the room, moving over to take the blankets from her, his fingers accidentally brushing hers. "Your hand," he reminded her gently, making an excuse, though in truth, he felt strange having her wait on him hand and foot, like a servant when she was obviously the mistress of the house. "I'll be fine. Really. I'm used to doing things for myself," he said, which equated to the same thing as being used to being alone.

She stiffened just a little as his fingers brushed hers - not through fear or discomfort, but more from guilt at enjoying that touch. She had lived a full year with virtually no one to touch or be touched by, and for someone who loved the tactile nature of the world in general, it had been hard. Her skin ached to touch and be touched. "So am I," she reminded him gently, daring to squeeze his hand before relinquishing the blankets to him. "I'll let you settle in. Feel free to raid the kitchen if you want anything."

He felt a strange chill when she touched his hand, giving it an all too familiar squeeze. What the devil was it about her that was so damned familiar" He found himself staring at her lips, leaning forward just a little, as if he was drawn to her, as if he wanted to taste those lips and see for himself if they were as sweet as they seemed. He stood there, close to her, just the blankets between them, before remembering himself, gathering the blankets in his arms as he pulled slowly away. "Thank you, Kit," he told her quietly. "I'll-I'll see you in the morning then."

Her hands tightened in the blankets as they stood there, caught in his gaze, fighting the urge to reach up and touch his cheek. She didn't know what was going on here - she was grieving for the loss of a man she'd never really had, and yet here was his doppelganger, alive and in the flesh, and all she wanted to do was lose herself in him, any way that she could. Her breath shuddered in her throat as he remembered himself, stepping back with an apologetic smile. "In the morning, she agreed with a shy nod, backing toward the door. Predictably enough, she tripped over something that wasn't there, stumbling far enough to catch herself on the door as she pulled it open. Blushing, she nodded once again. "Good night ....Rand."

His gaze followed her as she moved away, startled when she tripped and stepping forward to help her a little too late before she caught herself and opened the door. "Good night, Kit," he replied, standing there dumbfounded with an armful of blankets and staring at a young woman he'd only just met and for whom he felt an almost overwhelming attraction toward.

She smiled that shy little smile again, setting the door key down on the table beside herself before drawing that door closed. Leaving him alone in a room that held one small piece that might prove just a little of what she had told him that night, if only he noticed it.

Lost in thought, he only stood there a moment, as unmoving as a statue, watching the door she had just gone through and wondering if she was feeling even half what he was feeling, whatever that was. He felt all mixed up inside suddenly. How was it he was feeling such a strong attraction to someone he had only just met' But it happened that way sometimes, didn't it' His mother had said so. True love, she'd called it, but he'd laughed, accusing her of being a hopeless romantic. Well, what was wrong with that, she'd asked, and he'd had no answer for her.

After a moment, his sanity seemed to return and he shook his head, chuckling a little at his own ridiculousness. He dumped the blankets on the bed, intending to make it, when he spied something that made him gasp aloud. There on the nightstand was the portrait of a man clad in some sort of military uniform, with a cap on his head, but it was the man's face that he found strange. He picked up the portrait to take a closer look and found there was no mistake - the face that looked back at him was his own.

"It's true," a quiet voice spoke behind him. "Every word she told you is the truth as she knows it." There had been no sound of the door opening, no footsteps to signal the arrival of someone else. The woman who stood in the center of the room was simply there, and yet not there, translucent in the artificial light. But he knew the face - it was the one he had stopped Kit from slashing to ribbons not so very long ago.

He spun around at the sound of a voice - a woman's voice - only to find no one there at all, at least, no one made of flesh and blood. The portrait fell from his hands and onto the floor as he took a step back, clearly in a state of shock, all the color draining from his face, though he remained on his feet, not fainting or screaming like a girl in a bad horror movie. Ghostly as it was, he recognized that face - it was the face of the woman in the portrait downstairs. Even so, some part of him found her strangely familiar, just as he'd found Kit familiar, but he couldn't quite fathom how or why. "Isabelle," he whispered, acknowledging both the woman in the painting, as well as the ghost standing before him.