storm awakened him a few times during the night and he was always startled to find Sahira by his side, her head on his left shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest, her hand cradled in his, snoring softly.
He'd drift off after a while, content, even happy for her presence.
Sometime later, toward dawn, he awoke to find her hand had found its way to his belly. She was rubbing it lightly, making little circles around his stomach that got wider and wider. Her fingertips brushed his semi-aroused penis, and quickly withdrew.
'Sorry,' she whispered in his ear.
'Don't be.'
She slid her fingers down over his belly and took him into her hand. She began stroking him, slowly at first, and then, as he grew harder, more quickly.
'Is this all right?' she said, as lightning struck a nearby tree and ignited the room for the briefest instant.
'Yes.'
A few moments later, she shifted in the bed and rested her head on his stomach. She brushed the very tip of him across her lips, lightly grazing them a few times, and said, 'And this?'
'Yes.'
She took him deeply into her mouth and closed her lips around him and the sensation caused Hawke to arch his back and moan involuntarily. Any doubts about how deeply he had missed this part of his natural life fell away like a shedding of old skin. He would mourn his beloved Anastasia until the day he died. But were the living served by a lifetime of abstinence in honor of the dead?
This is not a betrayal.
'Alex,' she said, lifting her head, her breathing heavy and somewhat hoarse, 'I know all this is strictly against our rules.'
'It is.'
'But I need you inside me. I have waited a lifetime.'
'And life is so short.'
'Are you going to make me beg?'
'No.'
'Please,' she said. 'Please. Now.'
Hawke stared at her face, those large dark eyes luminous even in the waning blackness of the room, and said the first words that came into his head.
'I would be honored.'
He entered her slowly and gently and the two brokenhearted people made love until exhaustion drove them to sleep.
In the early morning he woke to find her lying on her side staring at him.
'Top of the morning,' he said sleepily.
'Top of the morning.'
'Staying for breakfast?'
'Can't. England and Lord Malmsey await me. Desperately.'
'Know the feeling.'
'Alex?'
'Yes?'
'Before I go, I need to ask you one last question. All right?'
'Fire at will.'
'Have you any possible idea of why we were both made to suffer such cruel losses? Anastasia, Tony, your dear parents?'
'Yes, I think I do.'
'Tell me.'
'Quite simple, really.'
'Please tell me.'
'God sinned.'
SIXTEEN
LOVELY SPOT, MR. SMITH,' FAITH MCGUIRE allowed, rolling onto her side and propping her pert little chin into the palm of her tiny little hand. It was chilly in the dappled shade of the overhanging trees, the late afternoon sunlight filtering down to the green grass but not providing much in the way of warmth. Smith was gazing out to sea, giving her his best side, and she gazed unashamedly at his profile. He was a handsome one, all right, just like she vaguely remembered from the pub the night before.
They sat on a small shady bluff overlooking the ponderously heaving blue Atlantic, gazing at a small island just offshore. He'd brought a blanket and a jug of wine. Tools of his trade, Smith thought, smiling to himself. A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou. Isn't that what the poet said? And don't forget the knife. He had not forgotten the knife…
'Whatever was it the Bard said about a summer day?' he asked.
'Silly boy. I've no earthly idea what he said or didn't say. Never even heard of him. And, move your hand, please, sir.'
'The Bard was a poet, my pet,' he said, stroking her rounded thigh through the thin cotton of her white skirt with the pink polka dots. She hadn't dressed for the day. She had dressed for him.
'A poet, eh? Do you know one of 'em, then? You being such a fancy schoolteacher and all. One of his poems, I mean.'
'I know them all, of course. The sonnets, at least. Would you care to hear one?' He moved his hand up and cupped one of her heavy breasts.
'I'd blooming adore it, I would. No one's ever told me a poem before.'
'I'll tell you one in a bit, but first, lean back and let me look at you.'
A swath of dark gold hair fell across her forehead, hiding one eye. He pushed it gently away. He looked deep into her pale blue eyes. Had she known what he was looking for, she would have run for her life.
He stared at her as he slipped his hand inside her blouse and began to fondle her breasts.
'Do you see what I see?'
'I see some of me very most private buttons being unbuttoned is what I see, sir. And I ain't that kind of lass so I will thank you very kindly to-'
'But you said you loved me.'
'Right. Love, he says. A pint or three after we was introduced last evening, you'll remember.'
'I remember everything, dear girl. It's my private hell.'
'How you do go on. Still. I'm saving meself, I'll have you know. So don't get any fancy ideas. I'm Catholic, y'know. We wed 'em afore we bed 'em, as me sainted mum says.'
'I know that. But I love you, Faith McGuire. In my way.'
'Now, who said anythin' a'tall about love?'
'You did. Last night in Belfast, at Bittles Bar.'
'That was just Arthur talking.'
'Arthur?'
'Arthur Guinness.' She giggled. 'Do you get it? Guinness? Talking? It's a common enough pub joke.'
'Bit of a wit then, are you, darling?'
'Oh, go on.'
'I mean it.'
'You'll take your hands off me if you know what's good for you. You heard of Billy McGuire? That's me older brother. A right knee-capper he is, too. You dinna want to be on the wrong side of 'im, I'll tell you.'
