The Arabic language offered many romantic possibilities, at least eleven different words for love to precisely capture the various stages of the emotion, and perhaps, secretly, she had expected more elaborate verbal wooing from him. Yet here he was, making her swoon with a plain I shall fix them for you.
“I brought a spare pair,” she said.
A languid smile. “The golden ones? I liked those.” His eyes were admiring her again, and his hands were wandering, enjoying her skin without hurry. “Lovely,” he said, stroking the slope of her breast, “helou kteer,” very beautiful, when he traced the curve of her belly below her navel. He put a hot, possessive hand between her legs. “Petite chatte.”
Her toes curled. “Little cat?”
My cat, said the look in his eyes. Her throat felt too tight.
He glanced over at the nightstand, then back at her. “How do you feel?”
“Perfectly well,” she said, and he smirked because she had said it very quickly.
They made love slowly this time, under the covers, while he kept her cocooned in his arms. She learned that the blissful sensation at the end could come gently, like a slow warm tide, and make her cry. He wiped her tears away and told her it happened sometimes.
She had been impossibly arrogant, of course, to grab this particular slice of life for herself and to think that she would be its master. For a moment, her soul had found a matching power. As his thumbs touched the wet corners of her eyes, she knew he had etched a space for himself into her heart so deeply that the days without him would echo with his absence.
Chapter 23
In the silver-blue shadow of dawn, Elias watched her sleep. Her hair spilled over the pillows, dark and liquid like ink. She lay on her side, motionless, her breathing barely a whisper. His lover was a light presence, whether dreaming or awake. How had such quietness snuck under his skin, so quickly? Since his exodus from the mountain, he had led his life with intention: He kept things simple. He did not repeat mistakes. A fling was a fling. Yet here he was, with a disturbing emotion roiling inside his chest while he watched her simply existing. A crucial part of him, a spot where he kept his most loyal devotions, had hardened against her when she had rejected any commitment from him. Then she had lain under him, so brave and yet seemingly unconscious of what she was giving him, and it had nearly cracked him open again. The sheer depths of her emotion sanctified their transgression, or so he told himself. They would repeat their mistake many times before the week was over.
Outside, below the window, a carriage rattled over cobblestones. London was waking, his mission was calling. He picked up a loose strand of her hair and pressed it to his lips. It was soft but not sleek to the touch, like a coil of raw silk, its scent a heady blend of her essence and their lovemaking. Having to affect her with something that could cause her grief caused a physical resistance in his body, the righteousness of his cause did not change that fact. Against true passion, reason was like a drop against an ocean; it stood no chance. Carefully, he placed the lock of hair back onto the pillow. What he could do was to take care of the artifacts but to keep the business away from her for as long as possible, until his plan had a proper shape. She was still asleep when he left for the underground station, in an inconspicuous gray suit and a nondescript hat.
He met Nassim’s man in a shady pub at the corner of Little Queen Street, a stone’s throw from the Houses of Parliament. Soot dimmed the morning sun. The street itself was an odd demographic aberration in a moneyed district: dilapidated seventeenth-century houses were crammed shoulder to shoulder, and a foul smell rose from the brown puddles on the pavement. Not a slum like Drury Lane, but no gentleman would walk a child or woman down this street. The pub fa?ade, however, faced the respectable Princes Street, and Elias had gone inside through the main entrance. His contact had entered through the side door from Little Queen, ten minutes past the time they had agreed on in their telegrams. They occupied a grimy table next to a window, out of earshot from the patrons who were having cigarettes and liquid breakfast at the bar.
The contact was a short, muscled Englishman of indiscernible age. His mustache was well-groomed and his clothes were plain but clean; he would not draw too much attention in either Little Queen or on Parliament Square.
“You ’ear this,” he said in a conspiring tone as he leaned over the table toward Elias. “I’s all Irish.” He whirred his hand around in the smoky air. “Every single fellow in ’ere is Irish. It all started ten years ago, with them coming ’ere, now one in three fellows in London is an Irishman.” The man’s own accent was thick Cockney; he was dropping his t’s and h’s like hot coals. “They ’ave nofing to eat, over there,” he added, tilting his head, presumably in the direction of Ireland. “No work, either.”