Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [22]
“What’s your hurry? I want privacy as much as you do, but another day or two here—”
“Is a day or two too long! Oh, I know I’m being unreasonable and unfair; it’s because they’re so fond of us that they want us with them. But the only time we can be alone together is at night; if we steal away during the day they know why, and Sennia is apt to come looking for you, the way she did yesterday—I thought I’d have a heart attack when she started knocking on the door and calling your name.”
He was laughing soundlessly, his breath stirring her hair. “The moment was certainly not well chosen. Mother would say I had it coming. I can recall at least one occasion when I interrupted them under similar circumstances. It was the only time Father ever threatened to thrash me.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“Neither do I . . . now. My only excuse is that I was too young to comprehend the situation.”
“How old were you?”
“Ten.” The rhythm of his breathing changed and the arms that held her tightened. “A few days later I saw you for the first time. I was old enough to know one thing—that there would never be anyone else for me. Don’t pretend you felt the same. It took me years just to get past the younger-brother role.”
They could talk about them now, the misunderstandings and heartaches that had kept them apart so long. Almost all of them. “Was it worth the wait?”
“I’m not sure. Feel free to convince me.”
“As soon as you promise you will help me move first thing tomorrow.”
“Of course, if it means that much to you.”
Another man might have made a jesting reference to Lysistrata, who had refused her favors to her husband until he agreed to her demands. His ready understanding melted her completely. “It’s just that . . . She watches me all the time. I can feel her eyes examining me. Kadija and Fatima do it too. They’re wondering if I’m . . .”
That was the one heartache she still couldn’t face, the word she couldn’t say, the guilt that would not go away. If it hadn’t been for her folly and pride, they would have the child they both wanted so much. She had promised she would never talk about it again, but she didn’t have to. He knew.
“How often do I have to say it?” he demanded, his voice rough with anger—not at her, but for her. “It wasn’t your fault. For the love of God, Nefret, you’re a doctor; you know things can go wrong for no apparent reason. There’s no hurry, sweetheart. I’m too selfish to share you with anyone else just yet.”
She clung to him, too moved to respond, and he added, “Including Mother. Or Father. Or Sennia. Or Fatima and Kadija and Daoud and Selim and the rest. They do hover, don’t they? Damn it, you’re right. I can’t give you my full attention when they’re around.”
Not since their first night together had they made love with such urgency and tenderness. Nefret went over it in her mind, every word, every gesture. He found her there when he came in, her hands resting lightly on her waist.
Later, while they were having tea on the upper deck, he said, “I assume we aren’t dining with the family tonight.”
“You assume correctly. Mother and Father are dining at Shepheard’s.”
“With whom?”
“I don’t believe they have an engagement with anyone in particular. It’s Mother’s annual reconnaissance, to catch up on the gossip and see who’s in town. I declined their kind invitation to join them, but I thought we might go out—someplace where we needn’t dress and where we’re not likely to meet anyone we know. Bassam’s, perhaps.”
It would have been impossible to find a place in Cairo where the Emerson family was