Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [134]
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Fourteen
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Though the astonishing turn of events surprised me considerably, it did not offer any reassurance for the future, and my indomitable will quickly conquered my amazement. Sethos continued to breathe heavily onto my left knee. His shirt collar had slipped back, exposing the nape of his neck. The trick had failed the first time; all the more reason why I should give it another try. Clasping my hands tightly together, I struck.
The results were most gratifying. Sethos let out a grunt and released his hold. His knees slipped on the polished marble and his head hit the floor as he fell forward. His head would have struck my feet had I remained motionless, but even as he toppled, I was running for the door.
I had forgotten the cursed thing had no handle. I pushed at it in vain. Turning at bay, I saw Sethos advancing toward me. His tinted glasses had fallen off. His black eyes—his brown eyes—or were they gray? Whatever color they were, they were blazing with homicidal lust—or perhaps, considering his recent declaration, it was another kind of lust. To be honest, I did not really care which. Desperately I ran my hands over my trousers, hoping against hope some small tool had been overlooked—my penknife, my scissors, even a box of matches. He was almost upon me when a burst of inspiration illumined the darkness of despair. The belt itself! It was two inches wide and fashioned of thick though flexible leather, with a heavy steel buckle. Whipping it off, I whirled it vigorously.
“Back!” I shouted. “Stand back, or I will mark you in such a fashion that you will always bear one unmistakable stigma no disguise can hide!”
Sethos leaped back with agile grace. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “That,” he remarked, “is what made me love you, Amelia. You are so magnificently disdainful of common sense and discretion. The man who shares your life will never be bored.
“Please put that down and be reasonable. Even if you could strike me unconscious you could not leave the house.”
“I could try,” I retorted, continuing to whirl my belt, which made a sharp singing sound, like that of an angry insect.
“You could try. But you would fail; and if my men thought you had killed me or seriously injured me, they might harm you. Will you be more amenable if I promise on my solemn oath that I will not touch you or approach you again until you ask me to?”
“That will never happen,” I assured him.
“Who knows? Life is full of unexpected happenings; that is what makes it endurable. If you won’t take my word, look at it this way: You know me to be—well, let us not say vain—let us just say I have a good opinion of myself. Does it not seem more in keeping with what you know of my character that I would derive a peculiar pleasure from winning your affection—turning hate to love, contempt to admiration—rather than resorting to the brute force lesser men might employ? I despise such crudeness. And,” he added, with another smile, “I am sure your arm must be getting tired.”
“Not at all,” I said stoutly. “I can keep this up all afternoon. However, your argument has its merits.” I did not mention another, more persuasive argument, and I must say he was courteous enough not to refer to it with so much as a fleeting glance—the fact that my trousers, deprived of a large part of their support, were responding to the inexorable law of gravity.
“Very well,” I said. “It appears to be an impasse, Mr. Sethos. I will take your word, but mind you, I give no promise in return.”
I had not used his name before. Upon hearing it, his eyebrows lifted and he laughed. “So you have discovered my favorite pseudonym! Leave off the honorific, if you please; it sounds a trifle absurd,