highwayman.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Georgina had chosen Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies because as a child she had fallen in love with the grand, unabashed magnificence of the Canadian Pacific Hotel, the stolid, imposing holdout of what was commonly, if erroneously, thought to have been an easier and gentler age. David, to be truthful, didn’t care where they got married — it was the marriage that counted. As it turned out, the small and cozy snow-covered Episcopalian — or, as Georgina called it, Anglican — church of St. George’s in the Pines in Banff was perfect. And if Georgina’s parents were prevented from attending because of the combination of cost and uneasy skies between Europe and North America, then at least David’s mother and father were able to attend.
Standing ramrod straight, as became his rank, Admiral John Brentwood, Retired, said little during the ceremony except to advise his wife, “For Heaven’s sake, Catherine, it’s not a funeral. Keep on like this, and we’ll have to start the bilge pumps! “Catherine took no notice and was smiling beneath the intermittent tears. The admiral snuffled a lot, complaining later that the air was “too damn dry up here. Plays hell with my sinuses. ‘‘ When he shook David’s hand he mumbled an advisory-no one knew exactly what, except it had something to do with ‘decks” and “heading into the wind.” To Georgina he was positively grandfatherly and endearing, having decided in their brief meeting that her being a student of the London School of Economics and Political Science did not pose any immediate threat to the North American Alliance. What made his day complete, however, was the news, broadcast to his great satisfaction by the CBN network, which he detested, that his youngest son, along with several others, had been awarded the Silver Star for “action above and beyond the call of duty” around Lake Baikal.
During the fifty-mile drive from the small, private reception at the Banff Springs Hotel to Lake Louise for their honeymoon, they were as moved as a million tourists before them had been by the majestic sweep of blue sky and towering, snow-covered mountains. Mount Eisenhower was particularly impressive with its ramparts thrusting heavenward from the forests girding it around the frozen course of the Bow River.
“Another medal?” Georgina said it to David in that insouciant English way that admires the very thing it pretends to be mocking.
David shrugged bashfully, folding his pants neatly, SAS inspection-style, knifelike edges carefully aligned, before he draped them over the plush recliner set before a window that looked out on the dazzling turquoise edge of the Victoria glacier, astonishingly beautiful in the twilight. Georgina, fully clothed, keeping her coat on despite the heat of the room, watched him against the Rocky Mountain vista. “Stunning, isn’t it?” she said.
“Sure is.”
“That’s why I chose it.”
“Must have cost your dad a packet,” said David, shaking his head in awe. “I chose the right father-in-law!” He turned from the awesome glacier — intent now on another view and just as impressed. It was going to take some time — longer than the brief wedding ceremony in Banff. Or could he wait? He reached for the cord to close the drapes.”Leave them open,” said Georgina cheekily. “I’m sure the glacier won’t mind.”
“Tourists will.”
“There are none, silly. Not this time of year. It’s not exactly spring yet.”
“I’d rather them closed,” he said, pulling the cord, walking toward her, unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going to do terrible things to you.”
“
“Yes, ma’am.”
Apart from the obligatory wedding peck in Banff--he didn’t like making it a public spectacle — it was the first time they’d kissed, really kissed, since he’d left for the Ratmanov mission that now seemed so long ago. They lingered as long as breath would allow and then some, his hand slipping beneath her dress, sliding along the firmness of her thigh, pulling down the panty hose slowly. She pressed against him, his arm sliding between her legs, then his hand cupping, lifting her up and onto the bed, her soft murmur enticing him, her rose perfume washing over him, the tight, smooth V of her panties now moist, she feeling for him, squeezing him, her nipples engorged. He could restrain himself no longer, her sudden gasp one of pleasure, the feel of her gripping him, pulling him, engulfing him, filling him with a happiness he’d dreamt of in the past few months but doubted he’d ever experience again. She arched, her head moving from side to side, lips insistent, auburn hair a sheen in the soft, peach glow. She stopped — dead still. Waiting.
“What’s wrong?” asked David, alarmed.
She was trying to speak, her throat parched, her smile the most beautiful he’d ever seen. “I want to start all over again.”
“Holy dooley!” he said, the cornseed expression making her chuckle, making her even more desirable. They began again, and all he could hear was her whispering with terrible, loving urgency, “Harder, David — harder!” and he, wanting to make it last, to draw out the ecstasy, switched his thoughts to something distant — to Lake Baikal and the men who were gone and would never feel the pleasure he was feeling. Away from her for a moment, when he returned it was as if they were together for the first time, ready now to let go utterly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Oh, that’s lovely, that is!” proclaimed Aussie to the British liaison officer in Freeman’s Khabarovsk HQ. “Very bloody nice. You mean we’ve gotta stay in this burg for another six weeks. Bloody Brentwood, he’s home. Probably dippin’ his wick for all I know.”
“Your papers haven’t come through,” said the British liaison office sergeant coolly. “That’s all.”
“That’s all! This bloody Welshman here—” He turned, his thumb jerking at an amused Choir Williams. “He’s on his way home. On one of your plurry Hercules, and here’s me — the bloody hero of Baikal — don’t even get my picture in the local rag.”
“Who the hell’s La Roche?” said Aussie disinterestedly.
“You carryin’ any aspirin?” the sergeant asked him.
“What?”
“Well, if you are, he probably sold ‘em to the army. Supplied everything from chemicals to shoelaces. Could be put away in the slammer for ten years.”
“Hey, hey,” interrupted Aussie. “I don’t give a fig about La Roach or who the hell he is. What I’m worried about is while Williams here is about to shove off back to friggin’ Wales, I’m stuck here on friggin’ cease-fire duty.”
“Not to worry, Aussie,” said Choir. “Salvini’s pulled the same duty. They’ll have you back in Wales soon enough, boyo.”
“This might surprise you,
“You volunteered, boyo.”
“Yeah, so I’m a mug.”
“Ah; don’t fret, lad,” said Choir, winking at the duty sergeant, without Aussie seeing it.”You’ll probably be here in time for the Amur caper.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Come spring, summer,” explained Choir, “lot of nude sunbathing on the banks of the Amur, I ‘m told.”
“Yeah?” said Aussie.
“Isn’t that right, sergeant?” Choir asked.
