Page 35 of The Spy Who Loved Her
“Anything at all. I would like to know you better.” Her breath sighed out against his chin, warm and compelling. “Please, Rafe.”
My sister is your dearest friend.“I am the middle of three children,” he said. “The one that has always been lost in the shuffle. The one to whom not much attention has ever been paid.”
A soft sound; agreement, he thought. “I thought that about you,” she said, “the first time I saw you. Not that you would not draw attention—but that you don’t appear to seek it. Force of habit, then, I suppose.”
“Yes. Habit.”And then necessity. It had become a way of life; it had ensured his safety. Better, always, not to be noticed.
“It’s not so very difficult, is it? Speaking of yourself?” Those soft fingers slid up his throat, traced the line of his jaw. “Another. Please.”
I have loved you from afar for years and years.“Once, years ago, I was a soldier. When I was shipped off abroad, it took my father weeks—months, most likely—even to notice I was gone. We were all disappointments to him, my siblings and I, but I…I was so far beneath his notice that he did not even note my absence.”
He felt the pull of a small, sad smile against his shoulder. “We have that in common, I think. There was nothing my father wanted so much as a legitimate son. But my mother could not give him one, and he never let either of us forget how much we had disappointed him.” The pad of her thumb slid across his lower lip, as if to coax forth more words. “Something else.”
I killed your husband. I destroyed your life, and I can never let you know it. Because above all, I cannot bear for you to hate me.He said instead, “I have very few people in my life whom I would call friends. I have long become accustomed to solitude. I haven’t found it lonely. It’s simply the way my life has always been.” Alone, even in the midst of a crowd. It had become a comfortable thing for him.
“I think I’m a little jealous of you for that,” she said softly. “I have been lonely for years, and I feel every minute of it. Like a sickness of the soul.” She pressed her cheek to his, whispered in his ear, “One thing more,” she said. “Tell me—tell me something no one else knows. Something just for me.”
When we part ways, I will spend the rest of my life longing for you.“I haven’t found it lonely,” he said, “until just lately.” She had given that curse to him, and he would have only a handful of memories to counterbalance it. “I am lonely when I leave you.”
And now, forever after her, he would know it.
∞∞∞
There was an arm about Emma’s waist. Solid, heavy, and warm. A sort of warmth that had long been absent from her life. No—a warmth that had never beenpresentin her life. The heat of a man’s chest against her back, his legs entangled with her own, the rush of soft, even breaths against her shoulder; these were all new, all novel.
She had never once woken within the shelter of someone’s arms. And for just a few moments, she was going to savor it, savor this strange new sensation of intimacy. Of closeness. Her fingers drifted along that arm settled across her waist, raking through the dusting of dark hair upon it.
“Good morning.” There was a trickle of amusement in Rafe’s voice, and not even a hint of grogginess. Probably, she thought, he had been awake for some time already.
“Good morning,” she said, because it seemed like the sort of thing one ought to say. “How long have you been awake?”
“An hour,” he said, his stubbled jaw trailing along her shoulder. “Perhaps a little longer. Nothing is amiss from what I’ve seen. No disturbances in the night.”
“You’ve been up already?” She had slept quite deeply, then.
“I rise early,” he said. “It seemed a prudent thing to inspect this wing for signs of trouble. I didn’t want you to have any uncertainty on that front upon rising.”
“But you came back to bed,” she said.
“Yes. You were still in it. Are you better this morning?” His palm settled over her abdomen, with tender pressure
“Better than yesterday, though I think I will have another bath.” The hot water had done wonders last evening, and so had he. But already there was a dull ache that promised to sharpen as the day advanced. “Will you still return this evening?”
“If it pleases you. I might be quite late; I do have some…business to which to attend.”
“With Kit,” she said. Through the window, the first peachy strains of light had begun to emerge, and a strange melancholy settled in her chest. Dawn was imminent. He would have to go, and soon, and she—she wouldmiss him. She would miss the peace of this moment when he had gone, the sense of comfort and security his very presence had given her.
“Among other things. You needn’t worry. Chris would never take chances with your security.” A sigh slid past her ear; a regretful sound her heart echoed. “I must be going,” he said. “Sleep a little longer. You’ll be safe while you do.”
It took him only a few moments to dress and quit the room, and Emma sighed as she rolled into the warmth of the spot he had vacated. Her fingers slid over the impression of his head left behind upon the pillow, which still carried his scent. That particular blend of cinnamon and spice that had become so soothing. Synonymous with comfort and care and companionship.
Here was a man who cared if she was in pain, who had stayed with her through the night to allay her fears. A man who had risen before dawn to assure himself—and her—of her safety, only to crawl back into bed simply because she was still in it. A man who asked how she was feeling as if he held a genuine interest in the answer.
Emma had not had much experience being honest with herself, because truth was often a painful thing to confront. For so many years it had been easier simply to ignore it, to pretend it away. Yet it had always followed her, lingering in the shadows, waiting to pounce. Only now that she had begun to sort through them at last, she found that the anticipation of those painful truths had been so much the worse in her mind. She had, in a way, both created and extended her own suffering.
Now there was a new truth lingering just at the fringes of her mind. A subtle, sneaky one. A sly sort of thing, which had crept up upon her an inch at a time. And so she closed her eyes and acknowledged it, this strange reality, with a sense of inevitability and not a little dread.
She had told Kit, not too very long ago, that she had only wanted to feel again. Now, she feared she was feeling a bit too much. More than she had ever expected. More than she had asked for. More even than she had wanted.
