He never told her he didn’t go to other women. For five years it had been only her. Nobody else. Nobody, not even when it was months that went by without seeing her. He wouldn’t have admitted that under torture.
She slipped his coat down over his shoulders and down his arms. Unbuttoned his waistcoat. His senses filled up with swirls of the apricot color she wore and the sweep of her hair. Everything about her flowed like water.
He’d have let her hurt his ribs, just for the pleasure of feeling her hands on him. But she didn’t hurt when she undressed him. She was neat and quick, getting his shirt untucked, pulling it off over his head.
His shirt joined his coat and waistcoat on the floor. She ran her fingers lightly over his chest, up and down his ribs. “You look as if you have been laid upon the road to be trampled by an advancing army. You have many bruises, for one thing. They are very ugly.”
“You, on the other hand, are luminous as daybreak. Exquisite as . . .”
“Sit,” she said. “On the bed. And be silent. I do not wish you to collapse facedown on the floor and become even more inconvenient to me. You have burned yourself away to nothing at all.”
Pain jabbed in his side when he sank down. Linen sheets on the bed and one light blanket. Everything was orderly, simple, well arranged. Everything said “Owl.”
He sighed out a deep breath. “It was a long ride.”
“So you fall from the horse because you are exhausted. I am all out of patience with you.” Her hands were light on his shoulders. “If you are determined to kill yourself, ask me to do it. I would earn great praise in certain quarters if I brought you down. Have you broken any bones? There is a surgeon downstairs in the parlor tonight, only half drunk. I can bring him to you.”
“There are two hundred and six bones in the human body and not one of them is broken. Remarkable, isn’t it?” Who’d told him how many bones a man had? Doyle maybe. Or Pax. They carried that kind of useless information in their heads.
Her breasts, small, perfect, and kissable, rose and fell, about six inches from his mouth. He wanted to start, right there, and taste his way across her body. He wanted to put his head down onto her breasts and fall asleep. “Feels like I’ve been beaten with rods. Very Turkish.”
“One may expect you to explore such novelties. You are very stupid to fall off horses, but I do not suppose you will change.”
“For you, my sweet—”
“Oh, be silent. Your boots demonstrate all the reasons women should not entertain men in their rooms. I will remove them so you do not suffer doing it. I am a marvel of sensitivity every time I am with you. I astound myself sometimes.”
He must have closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was at his feet, taking his boot in her hands. The sight of her, kneeling between his legs with her hair spread out over the edible, edible silk on her shoulders . . . He couldn’t have found words anywhere on earth, in any language.
Inevitable, wasn’t it? He could barely move, but he managed to get roused up like a rabbit. He was almost too tired to talk, but he wasn’t too tired to spring up hard, pointing to Owl like a compass seeking north. What they had between them was natural as breathing. Always. Every time.
He didn’t try to touch her, just looked. That was the joy of being a man. Looking was its own reward. Hunger welled up, and it felt warm and fine.
“You are not entirely exhausted.” Dry words from Owl. She took on the second boot, being gentle. “Do you plan to use this particular yard of gallantry, perhaps?”
He laughed. She could make him laugh. “I’m filthy. I don’t belong in any woman’s bed, least of all yours. But, damn, I want you.”
“So I see. I am vastly flattered.” When she stood, silk like apricots, like peaches, flowed across his thighs. Cool yellow fire, infinitely tempting. “You are in several sorts of pain tonight, are you not? I will get you a brandy.”
She kept brandy on the shelf with her books. Wasted on him, of course. He’d never told her he liked gin better. He could admit he’d killed an Austrian captain, who needed it, but he wouldn’t tell her he drank gin by choice. She’d think worse of him.
“This particular brandy, they make near my old home from the lees of the grape harvest. It is very potent.” She gave one of her fugitive grins and went looking for a glass.
Women move different from men. Their joints don’t fit as tight. They glide from place to place without any obvious assistance in the way of bones and muscle involved.
Narrow and clever feet slipped in and out of the slit in the peignoir, not making a sound on the floorboards. Her toes were naked and pink as raspberries. One day soon, when he didn’t ache so much, he was going to kiss her toes. Take them into his mouth and suck on them, one by one. She’d twitch when he did that. He liked it when she twitched. “I kiss your hands and feet, gnädige Fräulein.”
“That is very pretty. Your German accent has improved. Here. You will see this is the cut crystal you gave me in Vienna. I took a fancy to it and brought it back home with me.” She held the glass till he had it firmly in both hands. “Tell me why you have tormented yourself and several horses, racing to Paris. It is not merely to see me.”
“Oh. The usual. Civilization is coming to an end. War is imminent. The sky is falling and we have to go tack it up again.”
He’d gone to Service headquarters first, to the new house over on the Left Bank. He’d dropped a copy of the letter in Pax’s lap two hours ago. Carruthers was already calling in agents. Setting them to work.
His job was to tell the French. That was his assignment from London.
The Service knew he had a line into the French Secret Police. They didn’t know it was Owl. Nobody knew about him and Owl.
Owl said, “And what is the usual?”
“It’s not good. Give me a minute.” He sipped eau-de-vie, which was strong enough to lift his brain case. “But I’m carrying one piece of good news. Hand me my coat, could you?”
The package was wrapped in his handkerchief and wedged into an inner pocket, beside his left-hand knife. He’d tried to protect it when he fell, but it looked a little flat. He slit the twine and handed it over.
Owl let brown paper wrapping drop to the floor. Pulled the end of a thin blue ribbon and let it fall. Slipped the lid off. She stood, holding the little painted box with the tips of her fingers. The ride from London was worth it, just to see her face go unguarded like that.
His small, unofficial commission. It wasn’t the first time he’d played courier. “Rock cakes, they’re called. In Sévie’s case, one of those appropriate names. She sends her love and that letter. I’ll tell her you enjoyed them, when she asks.”
“You may do so, because I will.” She ran a finger over the little brown cakes, then picked the folded letter from the side. “Drink the brandy. You’re shaking.”
She slid the lid back into place and set the box on the table, on top of the letter, so it was hidden. She wouldn’t read it at once. She’d save it for later, savoring the moment as long as possible. He knew her so well.
“Just tired.” He drank again. “Last time you gave me brandy was outside Zurich.”
“When you came to warn me, in a benevolent manner. You were exhausted that time as well.”
“And on the run.”
“We both were. It is remarkable how often we manage to annoy the same people.”
“The Austrians are easily annoyed.”
“C’est vrai. Now, tell me why you have come from England. What matter is so serious you barely trust yourself to speak of it?”
“In my coat. I’ll show you.”
Owl did not hand him his jacket. She ransacked the pockets herself. If she hadn’t been French, and blue-blooded and a spy, she would have been an ornament to any gang in London.