He left her by the fire while he cleared away the trays and went into the kitchen. When he returned with the coffee, she was sitting as he had left her, staring into the fire, legs tucked under her, her red mules peeking from beneath the hem of her velvet dressing-gown. He stretched out beside her, while she leaned back to nestle in his arms. The light from the flames flickered in her curls, tinting them with the rich gold of a cornfield. They remained there for a long time, the glow from the embers caressing her face, like the woman in the Flemish portrait. It was she who broke the silence:
'I thought I was a sane sort of person,' she said softly. 'But things have gone so fast.'
'It's only three days,' he murmured, his chin resting on the top of her head, 'since I swore at you from the ditch.' There was a freshness, a delicious perfume about her, elusive, like the scent of new-mown fields in June.
'Julian,' she said softly, 'you've told me a bit about your submarine, but there's something worrying you, isn't there?' She half-turned, reading his face.
'I've got a lot to think about.'
'Can you tell me?'
'Very little. I don't know much myself yet.'
'About me?'
'You're involved.' His hand entered inside the collar of her gown, his fingers running lightly down her shoulder, tracing the curve of her breast. With the other hand he tilted her face up to his.
'D'you really love me as you say you do?' he asked. 'It's a silly question, I know, but take care how you answer it. D'you love me as I do you,' he repeated, 'to the end of the road?'
He was looking down at her where she had settled, half-crouched, leaning against him. For answer, she took his other hand in hers, placed his fingers on the belt of her dressing-gown. Still gazing into the fire, she drew his hand downwards. The velvet unfolded, like the petals of a flower. Looking down at her he watched the firelight flickering upon the roundness of her upturned breasts.
'You know how much I love you,' she whispered, pressing her hand against his to arrest it briefly. Farge could see the violet shadows further down, smell her delicious closeness. 'Stop there, darling,' she murmured. 'This is a wonderful moment for me.'
'I must know something, Lorna,' he said. 'Will you share your life with me? Does it mean marriage?'
She lifted a delicate gold cross which hung from a chain around her neck. She slowly nodded her head.
'I could be dead within the fortnight,' he told her brutally. 'I'm on special leave.' He felt his heart pumping as he raised his hand roughly to the other shoulder of her gown. 'We may never meet or see each other again,' he concluded. 'We're' — he could not resist the word — 'expendable.'
The lines of her face were severe in the flickering shadows. 'I'm superstitious,' she whispered.
'What d'you mean?' he asked brusquely. He could see her pink nipples brushing the inside of the soft velvet.
'If we give in now, you won't come back.' She searched his face. 'Then I'll never have you.' She.spoke softly, drawing his hand inside the velvet folds. 'But we can go some of the way, can't we?'
The encircling flames about the logs flickered and died; at eleven-thirty, Julian threw more wood on the fire.
'You'd better go now.' She was on her feet, the dressing-gown fastened to her neck. Her restless eyes were shining in the firelight. He pulled her to him, stroking her hair with his hands. She strained, once more, moulding herself to him. 'Take care, my submariner,' she whispered. 'Thank you for giving me time.'
He pushed her from him. At the door he turned:
'Phone me at Barrow when you've made up your mind,' he said. 'There's still time.' The tears welled into her eyes. 'We could still be together,' he finished quickly.
The door flung back with the wind. Before he drove off, he looked back to see her tiny figure in the doorway silhouetted against the firelight from inside the house.
Chapter 6
Captain Pascoe Trevellion was thankful for the breathing-space which the hitch in the programme had produced. He sat alongside Butch Hart, the three-star admiral in the USN who was Director (Operations); he was an imperturbable southerner, resigned to the complexities of this hydra-headed organization which Trevellion was only beginning to comprehend.
'The boss has gone outside to meet the Secretary,' Hart muttered, glancing at his watch.
Trevellion extracted the file from his briefcase, sifted the papers, then leaned back to watch the scene as he filled and lit his battered pipe.
It was still less than a week since Trevellion had quit the North Sea, since nursing his sinking Furious into Plymouth. Two days after Furious docked, the First Sea Lord had summoned him to London. 'Speed', Admiral Sir Anthony Layde had said when terminating the interview, 'is the essence, Pascoe. You're flying tonight to Washington.' Trevellion had been appointed special envoy to the us Chief of Naval Operations. Layde had seemed genuine when he added, 'I'm sorry you haven't been able to get home to Rowena after what you've been through.' And that had been that.
Trevellion had spent the rest of that long day at Northwood with Jake Rackham and his staff, working on Operation sow; and then he had been whisked off into the night. He was still having to dress the wound in his leg he'd suffered during the recent days of the battle.
Rear-Admiral Quarrie of the British Navy Staff, Washington had met Trevellion at the airport. After fixing Trevellion's accommodation, Quarrie had taken him straight to the Chairman of the Joint Command Staff, a four-star admiral on a par with the First Sea Lord. The us admiral seemed pleased at the speed with which the Brits were moving and introduced Trevellion to Vice-Admiral Butch Hart, USN. After lunch, Hart had taken Trevellion to the National Military Command Centre, heart of the American defence machine.
Today, at the crack of dawn, they had together flown to Norfolk to study the planning of Operation sow with SACLANT and his staff who, through CINCEASTLANT and COMSUBEASTLANT, would ultimately run the operation. They seemed confident, but their optimism was restrained. SACLANT, the splendidly unconventional American admiral who was subordinate only to Nato and the us Secretary of Defense, seemed enthusiastic about the whole thing. The meeting was brisk and immediately afterwards Hart and Trevellion were flown back to Washington.
Trevellion had always been impressed by the American set-up; they were casual in so many ways, particularly in service protocol, but surprisingly hidebound in others. Their strength lay in their infectious enthusiasm and their friendliness, as exemplified by this meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff which Hart had asked Trevellion to attend as the British First Sea Lord's representative. Trevellion, sitting between Hart and Quarrie, found it difficult to believe that the most powerful men on earth were assembling here with such scant formality.
Admiral John Floyd, who was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had invited the Secretary of Defense to attend this final meeting on Operation sow before its presentation to the President.
'The boss is arriving now,' Hart muttered. 'Better douse your pipe.'
They stood up as the grey-haired admiral entered, at his side the Secretary of Defense, a dapper little man with rimless spectacles, dressed in a light grey suit which contrasted with the green and blue uniforms around him. An aide ushered both men to their seats.
'Right, Mr Secretary,' Admiral Floyd said, 'Let's go through the plans.'
In the dim light of the air-conditioned room Trevellion listened to the terse presentation of Operation sow. Charts were magnified, thrown up on the wall, as the most senior officers in the American fighting services made their contributions. There were no questions and the admiral, rising to his feet, turned to his civilian superior: