Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [115]
At her feet lay Francis Crawford, lost for once to the world in a heavy, unnatural slumber, his oiled skin hardly hidden by a loosely-flung cloak. The limber body she remembered, muscled like a cat’s, was griddled with burns; and there were fresh marks on the side of his face below the impeccable fair hair, barely ruffled. He must have lain unmoving where he dropped. ‘Don’t waken him,’ said Oonagh, her voice harsh.
‘I must,’ said Gabriel. ‘They will visit the tents soon.’
‘What will you do?’
Graham Malett smiled. ‘Being what I am, I am allowed my small altar in the most private part of the tent. Behind its draperies, there is room for more than one sinner.… He is wakening. The burns you see are superficial; they have all worked without sleep for some nights.… Francis? I have brought someone to see you. I shall be just outside the tent if you want me.’
Silently he left. Oonagh did not hear him. She saw Lymond stir; halt a second, eyes closed, as his brain assessed the situation, and then continue the movement until her shadow fell full across his face and his hand lay lax close to his dagger. She said, ‘There are none left to fear me in this world now, and yourself least of all. I hear Scotland is well lost for Paradise.’
Of a denser blue, his eyes did not cleanse with their candour, like Gabriel’s. Instead there was the shock of his laughter: mocking, tantalizing, real. His face came to life with it, regardless of the stiffened skin and the exhaustion he had not shaken off. In three movements he was standing, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, smiling at her as if they were playing against each other once more, duelling at her aunt’s house at Neuvy. ‘I hope to have both,’ he said. ‘Although in Ireland I have found Paradise already.… Does Gabriel offer you a chaste kiss on the brow?’
‘Barely that,’ said Oonagh. The desert, the hot breath of the seraglio, the gunfire, had all gone. ‘But they tell me you’re practising for the vows yourself. It seems a desperate waste of natural talent.’
‘Then I’d better study the entire subject again,’ he said, considering. It was a strange way to ask and be granted permission, but as he took her in his arms she had time to remember that he knew perfectly about her livid relationship with Galatian, and that in his immoral way he had a delicacy at least matching Gabriel’s. Then he kissed her fully on her cold mouth, and the blood ran through her fine skin in pain and thankfulness; and she wept with her black hair fallen on his shoulder and arm, while the pulse of his heart beat quietly against her cheek.
And because of that thing, she found the firmness to draw off, her tears stopped, and say with something very nearly the same as her old brusqueness, ‘Ah Mhuire … nostalgia, the curse of the Irish. Were you in the way of addressing me on some subject, or are we both to crawl under the altar cloth when Sinan Pasha comes?’
He let her go, his eyes lit with delight, and said, ‘It struck me it would be a stale, dull journey home without a lady, and a fine brigantine waiting out there with the biggest rascal unhung in charge. Would you come, at the cost of a risk or two, or are you perhaps more attached than I should guess to … the Turk?’
He did not mean the Turk, and she would not allow the euphemism. ‘Galatian is safe. He will be ransomed eventually,’ she said. And after a moment, as he still waited, she added, ‘I have filled my debt there.’
‘You would come? It would be a little troublesome.’ He smiled.
‘How?’
‘The Moor with his party are to be sent to the shore batteries tomorrow. There they are within range of the castle fire and must fight or die. So Sinan plans to take no risks with their loyalty. You and I will be there, dressed as the other slaves.’
‘Clothes?’
‘The Moor will get them. No one will notice the change in numbers. At any rate; no one would choose to go to the seat of the fighting.