Highlander - Donna Lettow [47]
She wanted to pull away again, then stopped. Something in his eyes, in his voice, in his encouraging smile reassured her. “His name was Ali. He was my student at Bir Zeit. Then the government closed the university, and he…”
“Was no longer your student,” he finished for her after a moment. She smiled gratefully at his tact.
“We married in ’89, during the Intifada. The Israelis called him an ‘instigator.’ During the first few years we were married, I think he spent more nights in an Israeli prison bed then he did in mine.”
“Sometimes the reunions make it all worthwhile,” MacLeod said with understanding.
She felt herself blush just a little, remembering, then went on. “When the military closed the schools in Ramallah, I taught children in our home. That was as close to rebellion as I got. That was Ali’s calling—war was man’s work.” She took a swig of her coffee and stared off into the fire. It was still so hard to face.
“And then?” he prompted, gently, already knowing.
“And then he went out one night three years ago and never came back. There was a disturbance. Some kids throwing rocks at some Israeli settlers got out of hand. Ali went to see if he could calm things down. I thought at first he’d been arrested again. And then I prayed to God that he’d been arrested again.” She looked down at her wedding band, still safely cradled in MacLeod’s hand. “It was a week before they even let me claim his body.” It was all so fresh. The waiting and wondering. The charnel house they called a morgue. She didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not now.
He reached an arm around her shoulders and tenderly lay his hand against her face, guiding it to rest against his chest. God, he smelled so good. His chest was firm and strong, and she could feel his strength hold her up, bolster her own courage. She leaned against him that way for a long moment, reveling in the feeling of being cared for again. Then she pulled away, grateful, and sat up, peer to peer once more.
MacLeod acknowledged the subtle change in their dynamic with an approving smile. “So then the professor became the ‘instigator.’ “
“Mediator,” she stressed. “Someone has to stop it, Duncan. Someone has to make sure no more wives or mothers go through what I went through. Israeli or Palestinian. The killing has to stop. And if it has to fall to me to do it, I will. No matter what.”
She stopped, uncomfortable. He was looking at her in a way she could only describe as wonder. The room had become unexpectedly warm. He reached out both his arms and as his hands drew nearer to her face, she closed her eyes and held her breath, hoping against hope he would touch her in the way she found she was suddenly longing to be touched. She felt his fingers brush her cheeks, then stroke her temples and she opened her eyes again to gaze into his soft brown ones. With slow, deliberate motions, he removed the graceful gazelles from her hair and she gave her head a toss, allowing the full glory of her mane to cascade around her face and beneath her shoulders to her waist. He dug his face and hands into her hair like a parched traveler at an oasis pool.
She hated to break the moment, but she had to laugh out loud. He lifted his head. “What?”
“You’ve been wanting to do that since the first moment you saw me.”
“So?” he said a little sheepishly.
“It’s all right, Duncan,” she said, “because I’ve been dying to do this.” She reached her arms up behind him and pulled off the fastener that bound back his hair. Then she ran her fingers slowly through his own glorious lion’s mane.
The passion of his answering kiss drove her back against the leathery folds of the couch, and she responded with equal fervor. Her mouth hungered to taste all of his flavors. Cinnamon and musk and the smoke of ancient campfires exploded in her mouth and she savored each one. She threw back her head, daring his tongue to take her, needing to feel his kiss deep inside her.
He tried to balance himself on his elbows and knees, sparing her body the brunt of his weight, but she pulled him down on top of her, her agile