Highlander - Donna Lettow [68]
Next year in Jerusalem …
He’d crossed out of the occupied Central Ghetto and into block after block of abandoned residences and factories that would never again hear the hum of machinery or the chatter of workers. Once the Ghetto had been bursting with the half million Jews forced behind its Wall. Now, with not even a tenth of its population remaining, most of the Ghetto lay vacant and desolate. This was the territory assigned to Tzaddik’s unit, the no-man’s-land between the Gesia Street entrance and the Central Ghetto. One last chance to try and stop the Germans before they could reach the last remnant of his people.
Just ahead, he saw a figure dart out of the narrow passage-way between two buildings. Immediately, he shrank into the shadows of a nearby doorway. No one should be on this street. Unless they were coming from outside the Wall and had somehow gotten past MacLeod. He drew his pistol and checked it. Footsteps pounded toward him, echoing from the deserted cobbles, running.
Closer. Avram braced himself, cocked the weapon. Then he reached out of the doorway and grabbed the runner.
Rivka screamed.
Avram released her immediately. “Rivka? What are you doing out here?” he scolded, more angry at himself than her for the tragic mistake barely averted. “You should be in a malina.“
The twelve-year-old, her heart still pounding wildly from her scare, drew herself up proudly, and announced, “I’m not a baby, Tzaddik. I’m a fighter.”
Avram always found it impossible to be mad at Rivka’s enthusiasm. “Fine, fine, you’re a fighter. at are you doing here?” he asked with almost fatherly concern.
“Gutman sent me to find Miriam. It’s time to report to the unit. Have you seen her?”
“She’s at the lookout with MacLeod,” Avram answered, and then immediately regretted it as Rivka took off wildly down the street once again. “Rivka, wait!” He started after her.
“I’m sorry, Duncan,” Miriam, her open shirtdress drawn loosely around her, nestled back against MacLeod’s naked chest and rested her head contentedly on his shoulder. Her throat and chest glistened with the mingled sweat of their bodies under the fullness of the moon. “I’m so sorry.”
MacLeod, clad once again in his trousers, sat on the rooftop holding her close. “Sorry for what?” he murmured, nuzzling her ear.
“Hmmmm, that’s nice …” she purred, her eyes half-closing. She lost herself in the sensation for a moment, then remembered what she wanted to say. “I’m sorry I acted like such a child, you know … before …”
Smiling into her ear, he idly caressed one gently rounded breast. “I don’t see any children here.” He stroked its rosy peak with supple fingers. She inhaled sharply and let it out in a slow rolling sigh as he spoke. “I just see a beautiful woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask. Nothing to be sorry about.”
“Really … ?” Her voice caught, then trailed off as Miriam felt his other hand trace a silken path up her bare leg. She had felt drained, emptied from more joy than she had ever imagined it possible to feel, and yet at the same time, energy surged through her at his touch.
“Really,” he assured her. “Maybe I should be the one to be sorry.”
“What for?” He had absolutely nothing to be sorry for in her eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said, leaning her back into the crook of his arm, cradling her head and shoulders. She was feather-light. He leaned over her and pushed back the folds of the open dress from her belly, exposing the blackish purple contusions, the brand of the Pole on her fragile body. “Maybe for this.” Slowly, his lips touched the bruises and he gently covered them with tender kisses,