Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [140]
“I have always avoided the softer sentiments,” Sethos went on reflectively. “My feelings for you came on me like a hurricane, a great natural force I was powerless to resist. I would have resisted them if I could. Even now I have a strange foreboding—”
“You have them too!” I exclaimed.
His lashes lifted; laughter warmed his brown—his gray—his chameleon eyes, before they darkened into somber pensiveness. “I used to view such premonitions as the expression of an instinct developed by those who have reason to fear danger. But now I wonder if there is not some higher fate that guides our destinies. Not a benevolent deity; no one who studies the cruelty of man can believe in a god who permits such atrocities. Only a vast, impersonal something, with a perverted sense of humor! It would be strange, would it not, if the solitary weakness of a lifetime should be my downfall? I sense that this may be so. You could redeem me, Amelia—you and you alone. Only imagine what I might do for the world if my powers were turned to good instead of evil. Help me, Amelia. Give me your hand—lead me out of darkness into light. . . .”
It was a thrilling moment. I felt that at long last I understood this strange, brilliant, and tormented man. I was moved—nay, I was inspired. My lips parted. My breast heaved. My hand reached out . . .
Our fingertips had not quite touched when the sounds of violence made both of us start from our seats. The curtains swayed wildly as the door opened and slammed back against the wall. There was only one person of my acquaintance who opened a door in that manner! I pressed my hand to my palpitating bosom.
It was Emerson! It was he! But what a sight he was! His hair stood on end, his best dress shirt was in shreds; one sleeve had been ripped away from the seam and huddled on his forearm like a ragged gauntlet. His face was disfigured by reddening patches, and one eye was half-closed. Blood dripped from his scraped knuckles, and in either hand he held a naked sword. Never in my life had I beheld a spectacle that moved me more! I felt that my pounding heart must burst the confines of my breast.
Before the curtain had fallen back into place, Emerson whirled round. He let out a startled remark, dropped one of the swords, and slammed the door shut but not before a sinuous and tawny form had streaked through the opening. Emerson dropped the bar into place just as the panels began to reverberate under a fierce assault. Then he turned again. His gaze went straight to me.
“Amelia,” he exclaimed. “For God’s sake, put on some clothes!”
“Emerson,” I replied, with equal passion. “Watch out!”
Emerson ducked and a heavy silver bowl crashed into the door, skimming his disheveled head. The cat Bastet sauntered toward Sethos. Her loud rasping purr blended with the dying echoes of the sound of the bowl striking the door. Sethos staggered as the cat twined affectionately around his ankles—she was, as I believe I have mentioned, a large and muscular animal. Agilely he leaped away, and the cat Bastet, deeply affronted, headed for the table and the stuffed chicken.
After a casual glance around to assure himself that Sethos had no other missiles convenient to hand, Emerson looked again at me. “Has he harmed you, Peabody? Has he dared . . . Has he . . . Good Gad, Peabody, seeing you in that outrageous costume has filled me with apprehensions I scarcely—”
“Have no fear, Emerson! He has not . . . He did not . . .”
“Ah!” Emerson’s chest swelled, completing the ruin of his best shirt. He shook the tatters of his sleeve from his arm and flexed his muscles. “In that case,” he said, “I will only tear one of his legs off.”
He started toward Sethos, who retreated as delicately as Bastet might have done, his hands hanging limp and loosely flexed.
“Emerson,” I said.
“Please don’t distract me, Peabody.”
“He is unarmed, Emerson. Your scimitar—”
“Scimitar? Oh.” Emerson stared curiously at the weapon. “I took it from that fellow out there,” he explained.