Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [308]
She left him.
HE WAS VERY TIRED, and his bruises ached beneath the torn clothes he had not yet had a chance to change for the others, above. He listened to her weary footsteps climbing the stairs, followed by a small pause. Then a door shut. From the sound, he knew that it was not that of the room he had taken.
He turned aside, and ranged through the hall and into the little parlour of the Sersanders house now owned by Adorne. There was nothing in it that spoke to him of Kathi, to whom he owed the key, and the loving gift of this night. A gift which, however empty its outcome, would perform one office at least: it would close, one way or another, the wound he had borne for the last eight years of his life.
The room was small, but he dared not sit, for fear of falling asleep. He thought, and sighed and smiled at the thought, that Adorne would have to purchase a larger house for Kathi’s expanding family. He felt no misgivings about Robin; only thankfulness that the quicksilver mind had found a wise young protector and shield.
He thought of Anna, and of what lay ahead, and wondered, suddenly, whether he could go on. He was not alone. Whatever they thought of him personally, Diniz, Moriz, Tobie and the rest seemed united in their resolve to help deal with Anna. But he alone was of the same blood as Anna; and must bear the onus of what was to happen to her, and to Julius, arriving tomorrow.
But of course, there was no alternative. Only the poor in spirit were permitted that kind of choice, as a sop.
He left the lamp in the hall and, stumbling a little, climbed the stairs to the top, where a half-consumed candle was set. There had been two. She had carried the other into her room.
He turned to his own room, where the open door showed him a lamp dutifully tended, and his cold bed already prepared. He realised only then that the other door was ajar.
He stood, frightened. Within, a low, golden light flickered over the carpet, and a chest with some silver stuff on it, although he could not immediately connect it with Gelis. He could see the platform of the bed, and the end-posts, with the cloth gathered back. He took three halting steps to the doorway, and stopped.
At first, he could see only darkness. Then he distinguished the white of the pillow, and the blur of her fair hair, loose upon it. Her breasts were curved and bare where the old, soft sheet crossed them, and below, the linen rested on the firm, breathing shapes of her body. Her eyes were deep in shadow, and open.
He walked over, and stepped up, and knelt; and she lifted her arms, touching his face tenderly with her palms, before she pressed him down to the crook of her shoulder. He smelled her scent, a girl’s scent from long ago, breathing from a skin sleek and smooth as a girl’s. His body remembered it first. She said softly, ‘I am sure. Forgive me, as I forgive you for much less.’
He lay without speaking, and her fingertips passed and repassed through his hair. Then he raised his head, drawing away to rest on one elbow to view her, but also to let her see him as he was: defence-less; his guard melted away in the torrent of relief. But the relief was adult, not childish; and when he spoke, the words were both adult and formal.
‘I have carried your hurts along with my own, and I think you have done the same with mine. We are both to blame, and we have both suffered for it.’ Then he bowed his head and said, ‘Is it ended?’
She had lifted herself a little to meet him. She laid her arms round his shoulders, and her head against his. ‘Yes, it is ended. If you want it to end. If you want me.’
He said, ‘I think … there is not much doubt of that.’ He could hear his own breathing, and hers.
But she was not ready yet. Her hands slid down, and she held him by the upper arms, facing her, while her eyes examined his face.