The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [114]
Not until Fatima scratched at the door and asked when we wanted dinner did I realize how much time had passed. We were sitting in the dark. He kissed me again and put me gently away.
“I’ll tell her ten minutes. Will that be time enough?”
“Yes. No. Tell her… Tell her we don’t want dinner. Tell her to go away.”
I stopped writing because I heard Narmer bark and hoped… But it wasn’t he. I can’t stay here any longer; I’m going out to wait for him at the door. A few steps closer, a few seconds sooner … I’ll pop this in an envelope and leave it on the table with the rest of the mail.
I hope you don’t think I broke off at that interesting moment for literary effect, or because I was ashamed to admit what happened. I’m not ashamed. I didn’t know it was possible to be so happy! Unless you are already on board ship, you will miss the wedding; I won’t wait an extra day, even for you, my dearest friend. Not that I care about the conventions—but the Professor would be scandalized and Aunt Amelia would lecture—they don’t understand, theirs was a different world—and my poor darling is so in awe of them he might lock himself in his room and refuse to open the door. Then I’d have to climb in the window! I would, too, to be with him. Thank goodness I had Ibrahim hinge the screens!
He couldn’t help himself last night, it was all my doing … mostly my doing … When I remember, I feel as if my bones are melting. That’s not the only reason I love him so much, Lia. He pretends to despise the gentleman’s code of his class, but he is everything they claim to be and seldom are—gentle and strong and brave and honorable.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Ramses didn’t need to ask Ali who the visitor was. The horse was sweating and showing the whites of its eyes. Percy’s horses always looked as if they had been ridden hard and handled clumsily. He delayed only long enough to tell the stableman to water it and rub it down. There was no one in the courtyard. He was almost running when he turned down the corridor toward their rooms. Even as a child there had been something about Percy that made his skin crawl with an emotion stronger than dislike and stranger than detestation. What he had learned about his cousin a few weeks ago made the very idea of his being alone with Nefret unendurable.
He didn’t doubt she could take care of herself, but when he saw her in Percy’s clumsy grasp, pure murderous rage drove every other thought and sensation out of his mind.
It felt wonderful.
The pressure of her body against his and the fingernails digging into his skin brought him back to his senses. Her face was ashen. Slowly and carefully he removed his hands from her waist. He hoped he hadn’t hurt her. He hadn’t meant to.
Percy had hit the wall with enough force to knock several photographs from a nearby shelf and was now on his knees clutching his midsection. A few carefully chosen words got him to his feet and out the door. He had better sense than to speak, but the look he gave Ramses was fairly eloquent. Well, they made quite a pretty picture, Ramses thought—the fainting girl clinging to her rescuer, her golden head against his breast, his manly arm supporting her. Percy was probably in no condition to notice that the arm round her waist was not embracing but lifting her. She was standing on his feet.
She had accomplished what she meant to do, anyhow. He hadn’t broken Percy’s neck. That was probably a good thing. She knew he was inclined to get himself worked up about killing people, and murdering a member of the family would have been unpleasant for everyone concerned.
It had been kind of her. Now if she would only go away and stop talking, and stop touching him, and give him a chance to get himself under control … She said she didn’t want any brandy. She asked him to wait while she changed. Her hair was coming down and her lips were