He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [159]
“No wonder he was upset.”
“Upset? You have a gift for understatement, my dear. It was a ghastly sight, and so damnably unnecessary! I hope the bastards who fill the heads of these boys with empty platitudes and then send them out to die burn in the fires of hell for all eternity.”
“Amen. But, Emerson—”
A tap on the door interrupted me. “That must be Nefret,” I said.
“May as well let her in,” Emerson muttered. “She’s as bull——as determined as you.”
Nefret’s examination was brief. “I am glad to see Ramses paid close attention to my lecture. It will be tender for a few days, Professor; I suppose there is no point in my telling you to favor that arm. I will just strap it properly.”
“No, you will not,” said Emerson. “I want to bathe, so take yourself off, young lady. Why are you still wearing your dressing gown? Put on proper clothing, we will leave for the dig as soon as I am ready.”
I encouraged her departure, for I still had a good many questions to put to Emerson. To some of them he could only offer educated guesses, but it was evident that the ambush had been arranged by a man high in military or official circles, and that he was in communication with the enemy by wireless or other means.
“We knew that,” I said, pacing up and down the bath chamber while Emerson splashed in the tub. “And we are no closer to learning his identity. You say a number of officers overheard your conversation?”
“Yes. Maxwell also knew of our intentions. He may have let something slip to a member of his staff.”
“Curse it.”
“Quite,” Emerson agreed. “Too damned many people know too damned much. I don’t suppose you have heard from Russell?”
“Er . . .”
Emerson heaved himself up and stood like the Colossus of Rhodes after a rainstorm, water streaming down his bronzed and muscular frame. “Out with it, Peabody. I knew you were guilty of something, you have a certain look.”
“I had every intention of telling you all about it, Emerson.”
“Ha,” said Emerson. “Hand me that towel, and start talking.”
Having determined—as I had said—to conceal nothing from my heroic spouse, I told him the whole story, from start to finish. I rather pride myself on my narrative style. Emerson certainly found it absorbing. He listened without interrupting, possibly because he was too stupefied to compose a coherent remark. The only sign of emotion he exhibited was to turn crimson in the face when I described Sethos’s advances.
“He kissed you, did he?”
“That was all, Emerson.”
“More than once?”
“Er—yes.”
“How often?”
“That would depend on how one defines and delimits—”
“And held you in his arms?”
“Quite respectfully, Emerson. Er—on the whole.”
“It is impossible,” said Emerson, “to hold respectfully in one’s arms a woman married to another man.”
I began to think I ought to have heeded Abdullah’s advice.
“Forget that, Emerson,” I said. “It is over and done with. The most important thing is that Sethos has got away. I am afraid—I am almost certain—he knows about Ramses.”
“You think so?”
“I told you what he said.”
“Hmmm, yes.”
I had insisted upon helping him to dress, since it is difficult to pull on trousers and boots with only one fully functional arm. Frowning in a manner that suggested profound introspection rather than temper, he slipped his arm into the shirt I held for him, and made no objection when I began buttoning it.
“What are we going to do?” I demanded.
“About Sethos? Leave it to Russell. Ouch,” he added.
“I beg your pardon, my dear. Stand up, please.”
He stood staring into space with all the animation of a mummy while I finished tidying him up and wound a few strips of bandage across his shoulder and chest to support his arm. Then I said, “Emerson.”
“Hmph? Yes, my dear, what is it?”
“I would like you to hold me, if it won’t inconvenience you too much.”
Emerson can do more with one arm than most men can do with two. Yielding to his hard embrace, returning his kisses, I hoped I had convinced him that no