Part 23 (1/2)
hear. ”But... I will be going away tomorrow.”
Emma felt as though she had been slapped. ”Where?” she blurted.
His eyes were pained. ”I expect I'll start in Casablanca. After that, I don't know.”
”How... long will you be gone?” she managed after a moment.
”I don't know that, either.” He looked at his hands. He took a breath as though he had to fight for it. ”It isn't my choice...” He
trailed off.
”Well, I'll be anxious for your return,” she said carefully, trying to sense the truth of his feelings about this turn of events. Was he relieved that he was escaping the ”expectations”? He didn't look relieved.
He shook his head convulsively. ”Everything will be changed by then. A woman like you gets offers of marriage every week.”
”I've managed to resist temptation so far.” She couldn't believe she was telling him so clearly how she felt about him, not knowing if he returned the sentiment.
”It could be years...” he choked, turning.
Years? He was trying to put her off! Did he long to get away from her? Had she mistaken echoes of warmth for a childhood friend for something more? She had to know. ”Surely a wife could accompany you, help you in your mission.”
He turned a gaze on her filled with such longing and such... loss it almost staggered her. He swallowed. Then his countenance
closed. ”Too dangerous in Africa. And if... the worst... happened... a widow without being properly a bride... worse, alone in a strange land...”
He thought he would die there? My G.o.d!
”An unfair proposition all the way around,” he croaked. ”No, there are no obligations between us. You must look to your own happiness.” He took a tentative step in her direction and another, until he loomed over her with all of his six-plus feet. Slowly he bent to her hand and lifted it gently with his own. The feel of his flesh against hers sent a thrill coursing through her. His hand was strong, the nails clean half-moons. He smelled like soap and lavender water. She was most aware of the muscle in his shoulders.
She could hardly concentrate with the sensation of skin to skin a.s.saulting her. ”I shall always treasure our moments together.”
That sounded so final! ”I await your return, then...” She tried to make her voice sound both stubborn and cheerful.
”No.” He pressed his lips to her fingers. The touch made her feel faint with impending loss. ”Move on with your life, Emma. I can promise you nothing.”
That was it then...
He snapped upright and let go her hand. All color drained from his face. His eyes shone. ”Your servant, Miss Fairfield.” He
nodded curtly, then spun on his heel and shut the breakfast room door behind him.
Emma was left staring at the closed door. Emotions careened and collided in her breast. Surely... surely his expression, if not his words, said he cared for her, that it was only duty that called him away... Was she wrong about that?
The door creaked open and her brother let himself into the room. ”Emma? I ran smack into Ware. He looked like he'd seen a
relative executed. You didn't refuse him, did you, girl?”
”I didn't get a chance,” she said, trying to make her voice light.
”He didn't offer?” Her brother was incredulous.
”It seems he's off to Africa tomorrow.” She took up a piece of needlework at random. Her hands were shaking. ”The
expectations at White's will go unsatisfied.” Her voice cracked on the last sentence. She despised herself for her lack of control.
”Oh, Emma!” Richard put a hand on her shoulder. ”What a time to be mistaken in a suitor, just when you finally found one you liked.” He sighed. ”There will be others.”
”Putting up with who I am because of my fortune, no doubt,” she said bitterly. ”I thought Davie... well, that he liked me as I was.
If I can't have that, I'd rather be a spinster. Not a fate worse than death.” But spinsterhood rankled. Marriage, too, with anyone but Davie, would gall her. What kind of diplomatic mission brought a certainty of death? Or had he just made that up to put her off? She watched her fingers pull small, even st.i.tches through her needlework as though they belonged to someone else. Everything had changed.
Somewhere inside she felt a storm building, one that might sweep away her sanity.
Chapter Two.
The sun sank behind the Kasbah tents in Casablanca. Davie watched the light die from the third-story window of the room he had taken. Fear thumped in his chest. The night belonged to them. How would he find Rufford in this teeming city?
He lit a small oil lamp against the coming twilight. The Admiral had given Davie his fastest cutter. Supplies were diverted from a s.h.i.+pment to Gibraltar and sent to Casablanca. Whitehall was pulling out all the stops to give Rufford anything he needed for the war he was waging against the forces of darkness.
Darkness to darkness, monster over monster. Did it matter who won? Davie asked that question and answered himself a dozen times a day.
Yes. The world probably depended on Rufford's brand of darkness prevailing.