‘Rafe?’
Amusement dissolved and his expression hardened. ‘What do you want me to say? That I’m frightened that he’s been followed, that I am fearful for his life, that I think this meeting has the potential to go so very wrong? Is that what you want to hear?’
‘Yes, if it’s the truth.’ She reached to touch his hand lightly, exquisitely aware that a show of affection was inappropriate in public. She withdrew her hand quickly. ‘What could go wrong?’
He looked up to the sky with frustration. ‘Anything and everything, Stella. He wouldn’t know how to shake a tail. Joseph wouldn’t even know if he was being followed. He’s setting us both up for trouble.’
‘Then don’t turn up. Rafe, just leave a message and let’s go . . . today . . . right now if we must.’
He had begun shaking his head as she spoke and now he turned to regard her with an expression of extreme tenderness. ‘I told you, he’s my brother. He’s frightened. If this were Carys or Rory, would you abandon them . . . leave a message for them?’
She swallowed the rush of words that was rising to fight his negativity but at the mention of her sister and brother she felt all the righteousness that was brimming a heartbeat ago vanish. ‘No,’ she admitted.
He nodded. ‘Let’s not spoil today.’
‘But Rafe, what if —’
‘Life is all about “what ifs” and “if onlys”, darling Stella. But we make our decisions based on what we know in the moment. And in this moment all I know is that someone I have loved as kin since childhood needs me and that he wouldn’t put me in danger if he could avoid it. Clearly he’s unnerved enough to risk it.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said, feeling like she was losing her purchase on him, when only an hour or so ago she had never felt closer to anyone.
‘Don’t be forlorn, Stella, not today.’ He lifted a shoulder and grinned. ‘Tomorrow will pan out how it must. Maybe Joseph will arrive alone, we shall have precious time together, he can give me what he came for and we can farewell each other without being observed. Or perhaps it will unfold differently. I never worry about what I can’t control, Stella. The spy business is hardly without risk and I didn’t come into it without open eyes.’
‘No, the worst part is, you like it.’
He watched her for a long moment before he nodded. ‘I certainly feel useful, if that’s what you mean. As to liking it, no. I like being back in Morocco but frankly I’d prefer to be walking the Weald. I like England and its miserable weather and its colour green. I like hearing my daughter quote Wordsworth, I like watching you pirouette in gumboots, or lying brazenly naked in my bed. I don’t like war, Stella, and preventing war is what this is all about. I don’t like spying, I like peace, and so if I can be one tiny cog in a machine that maintains peace in the world for the next generation, then I will do what is asked of me, including working as a spy when asked.’
Rafe’s gaze had intensified but it felt to Stella as though he was speaking words of love, not fear. Her eyes had welled and now a tear escaped and rolled treacherously down her cheek, chased by another.
‘Don’t cry, my darling,’ he pleaded.
‘I’m scared for you. I’m scared of losing you.’
‘Stella, I have a creed that has served me well all of my life and that is to focus on what is good about my life and to only concentrate on the present. Right now you are everything that is good about my life and we are here, today, alone and with the freedom to just love one another. That’s what I’m keeping my attention on . . . you and how much I love you right now and that dance you’ve promised me this evening.’
She dipped her head, searching for a handkerchief in her small bag, sniffing back the tears that refused to be stemmed.
‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘Why are we allowing emotion to get the better of us and ruin our day? Let’s walk ourselves back into our happy mood.’
Stella dried her eyes and looked around self-consciously. No one seemed to be paying them any undue attention and she squared her shoulders with the knowledge that the situation Rafe was walking into tomorrow was so beyond her control, that nothing she could say or do might change it. He was right. It was easier to ignore tomorrow and worry about making today special – perhaps the only time they may have alone in the foreseeable weeks – maybe months – until he could get his family life sorted and give her a glimpse at the future they hoped to share. The thought of growing old together felt like sunshine in her heart and for the first time she gained a sharper understanding of her parents’ terrible pact. Neither wanted to spend a day without each other; they’d grown as old together as they could and for one to go on without his or her closest friend obviously had felt like a far worse torment than losing their lives. The horror of their decision would never leave her, but she was growing closer to forgiveness.
‘Ah, there’s that smile I love,’ he said, hugging her briefly once they had left the tiny square.
‘I don’t believe I want to see anything more.’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I want to be where we can be alone, in each other’s arms. That’s when I feel happiest. That’s when I know you’re safe.’
‘Back to the hotel?’
She nodded.
They walked, without touching or speaking. Stella didn’t think they needed to. Soon their skin would touch, their fingers would knit, their tongues would communicate without sound. Stella let the press of people and carts, their animals and the noise of the streets take over. She followed Rafe’s figure through the slim, darkened alleyways, enjoying the sound of their lonely footsteps on the cobbles before they emerged into sudden bright sunlight and a host of locals going about their daily chores and business.
He turned around, throwing her a smile. ‘All right?’
‘It’s taking longer than I thought,’ she admitted.
‘Quick detour. I want to buy you something.’
She shook her head. ‘You already have,’ she said, touching the silk of her scarf that was back to covering her hair.
He ignored her, grabbing her hand. ‘Just here,’ he said, and sneaked a kiss against her cheek before he pulled her into a cavernous stall that smelled of spice and florals and was crammed with jars of oil. Baskets of rosebuds and lumps of crystal were dotted around.
‘Salaam,’ Rafe said to the man behind the counter, as he touched his chest.
The shopkeeper beamed from beneath a bushy moustache. ‘Good afternoon, Sir,’ he said in English.
‘Is Mohammed around?’ Rafe enquired, switching to English.
The man covered his heart with a hand. ‘Sir, I am Youssef. My father died last year.’ He muttered an oath in Arabic.
Stella watched Rafe’s expression falter. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. He was a friend of mine since I was a boy. Always very kind to our family.’
‘He was ailing for many years. I am his youngest son.’
‘Youssef,’ Rafe breathed. ‘You were probably just a teenager last time I saw your father.’
‘Then you have not been back to Marrakech in a while, Sir,’ he said, hands now either side of his bulging belly. ‘I have sons of my own now.’
‘That’s marvellous. Your mother is well?’
‘Her health is fragile but she continues to insist we teach her grandchildren English alongside their Arabic and French.’
‘Your English is perfect,’ Stella said, joining the conversation.
‘And you are the most beautiful customer I’ve had the pleasure to lay eyes on, Miss.’
Rafe laughed. ‘You’re a chip off the old block, Youssef. This is Stella Myles, a very dear friend of mine.’
Stella privately squirmed but kept her expression even; she understood his caution.
‘Then I would be delighted to find a fragrance that is as individual as you are, Miss Stella.’
Rafe turned to her. ‘This is a Berber apothecary. Youssef can attend to everything from bunions to toothache – it’s o
ur version of a chemist but not an aspirin in sight. His family has also long been a superb blender of essential oils to make fragrances.’
Stella gave Youssef a bright smile and he joined her to shake hands. ‘Ah, you already use our famous argan.’
‘Argan?’
‘In your hair.’
In a self-conscious gesture she touched the dark waves that had fallen free when she’d released them from the scarf. ‘How can you know that?’
He tapped his nose. ‘I am trained to know it. But do you know how the argan oil is harvested, Miss Stella?’
She shook her head, glancing at Rafe, who was clearly enjoying himself by his grin.
‘Argan oil begins with goats eating the nut of the tree. The goats then eject the nut, shall we say.’
Stella’s mouth opened with delighted surprise.
‘You understand, I see. Our women take the ejected lumps of digested food and crush it. They add water and then it is pressed. That first cold press is used for the cosmetics, including hair oil.’
‘Ah,’ she said with understanding.
‘The second press is a hot press – the paste is warmed and the resulting oil is then used for cooking.’
‘How does it smell?’ she wondered with a look of dread.
‘Just how you say, um, nutty,’ he assured with a chuckle.
‘There’s a final press, isn’t there?’ Rafe asked.
‘Yes, Sir. The third is used as a liniment for the tedleek . . . um . . . I have lost the English word for this,’ he admitted. He frowned, searching for the word, gesturing rubbing his shoulder.
‘Massage,’ Rafe explained to Stella.
She nodded, impressed. ‘All of those uses from one little nut. Fascinating. Tell me about all your herbals, Youssef,’ she said, strolling around the shop.
‘This is saffron,’ he obliged. ‘Tea with saffron is helpful for stiffness of the joints.’
‘Roses?’ she asked, pointing at the baskets.
‘So many uses, it’s countless,’ he admitted. ‘The oil for instance helps with puffy eyes.’ He pointed at some orange blossom, smelling sweetly in a huge tray. ‘Orange oil, very good for peaceful sleeping; a drop or two in their water and your children will not disturb you,’ he said, waggling a finger.
They shared a smile. ‘I’ll remember that when I have a child,’ she promised. ‘And this?’ she asked, staring at a jar full of black powder.
Youssef rubbed his front teeth with a stubby finger. ‘Makes your smile white.’
‘No!’ she said, filled with disbelief.
His hand flew to cover his heart again. ‘I would not lie to you, Miss Stella.’ He reached for a small lump of pale stone. ‘This is alum. It is a, how you say . . . ?’ He gestured rubbing it under his arm.
‘A deodorant?’ Stella wondered.
Rafe nodded. ‘My family used to use it. It’s astringent, and also a brilliant styptic so you can stem bleeding. It also makes a good mouthwash . . . altogether, very useful.’
Youssef was nodding, full of approval. ‘Also helps with leprosy and gum disease.’
‘Gosh!’ Stella exclaimed.
Youssef pointed to some small crystals, lifted a few in his hands and offered them to Stella to smell.
‘Menthol?’ she wondered.
‘Crystals of eucalypt,’ Rafe replied.
‘To keep moths away?’ she offered and both men laughed.
‘Very good, Miss Stella,’ Youssef said, waggling a finger again.
‘To chew,’ Rafe answered and took a small one. ‘A way to achieve sweet breath.’
Stella grinned, her previous glum moment seemed to have passed and she felt light-hearted again, surprised at how her emotions were seesawing these days. ‘And these?’ she asked, staring at a mound of pebbles of a translucent golden hue.
‘Frankincense,’ the two men answered together.
‘Oh,’ she breathed, delighted. ‘I’ve always wondered what it looked like since I was at Sunday School.’
‘Sir, I think a sandalwood-based perfume would suit Miss Stella. Come, please, let us find you the perfect oil to dab on your wrists tonight,’ Youssef said, turning his attention back to her.
An hour later they drifted back to the hotel, Stella armed with a richly scented fragrance of sandalwood, roses, bergamot and a host of other beautiful smells that formed a concert of harmony that suited her skin and, as Youssef assured her, ‘personality’ to wear at night.
They spent the afternoon in their room, shutting out the rest of life, and their world now stretched no further than the breadth of their bed. Here Stella found the ultimate comfort wrapped in Rafe’s arms and had to hold back the tears again when he looked deep into her gaze and admitted: ‘If I died right now, I would die happy because of today.’
She shooshed him, cradled his head near her naked breast, and they slept away the afternoon heat in each other’s arms, content in the tingling aftermath of their lovemaking.
‘Tonight we dance,’ he whispered as they slipped into peaceful sleep.
23
He found her on the balcony as the sun was dipping closer to the snowy caps of the Atlas.
‘You left me, wicked wench,’ he croaked.
She turned, chuckling. ‘You were sleeping so peacefully I didn’t want to disturb you.’ That much was true but she then felt obliged to follow with a lie to save them both more heartache. ‘I only woke about ten minutes ago.’ Stella had stirred more than an hour earlier to stare at the man who shared her bed. Rafe was still a relative stranger, she conceded, but consoled herself that she knew as much as she needed to. It mattered only that she had finally found love; a love so fierce that she knew it was akin to bereavement that these coming few hours may be their last together for a long time. With this notion came the memory of her parents and their intense bond and an unexpected stirring of guilt for her anger at them.
With him so tranquil, lost to his dreaming, she had felt alone and that created the space for her fears to fly back like dark shadows. Those she loved and even those she didn’t, including Beatrice and Georgina, sat on the imaginary boundary of her mind and nodded. Yes, indeed, she should be scared, they warned. There is no future with Rafe. Rafe is a lone wolf. Rafe is a dangerous influence. Rafe is in waters deeper than you can imagine. Rafe would never leave Harp’s End. Rafe would tear your family apart because your very love for him would force you into a choice. Rafe might not survive tomorrow.
That last one came at her like a snarling beast and its shock brought with it a fresh wave of the familiar nausea she thought she had left behind on the rocking ship. But it had found her again on a beautiful late afternoon on the stillness of the land of Marrakech and she’d had to run to the bathroom and retch quietly so she didn’t disturb him. Acid liquid had erupted violently to burn her throat and sting her mouth, leaving her prone on the cool of the mosaic floor, panting and frightened. What was happening? Something was stalking her. Was she harbouring a sinister illness, or was her love for Rafe so intense that it had moved beyond that glorious feeling of irrepressible brightness that glowed in every cell and become a physical incarnation of fear? Fear of losing him, fear of abandonment, fear of him returning to the life he loathed but knew, fear of him preferring his strange marriage with Beatrice that gave him freedoms most family men did not experience, fear that the child he loved would ultimately trump her? Fear that she simply wasn’t enough?
Finally, after an interminable time, when the breathlessness had ceased and the roiling in her belly had dissipated, she had hauled herself to her feet and placed a damp flannel on her face. The cool worked. She had rinsed her mouth, brushed her tousled hair and pulled on a thin cotton bathrobe to stand in the shade of the balcony to wait for him while she shared the sun’s journey towards day’s end.
She watched him now, the lie that came so easily floating between them, smirking at her.
He yawned and stretched in his comfortable ignorance and without embarrassment for his lack of
any covering. She heard his shoulder click and his contented sigh at the sound. As impossible as she may have thought it a short while ago, Stella felt her body arouse once again at the sight of his nakedness.
‘How old are you, anyway? You look so good for it.’
He gave her a look of arch offence. ‘You above all should know I am good for it.’
Stella reached for him and pulled him tightly to her. She needed his jaunty humour to carry them through this . . . they simply had to get through another day – less than twenty-four hours, even. By tomorrow noon it would be over and they could make plans for the rest of their lives.
He was still sleepy and buried his head in her shoulder. ‘What time is it?’ he asked, his voice echoing beneath the canopy of her hair and within the cradle of her shoulder. Stella felt his head shift, knew he would look to the mountains to make up his own mind. ‘Must be nearing six,’ he decided.
She straightened. ‘How do you do that? Is there anything you don’t know?’
He grinned back at her. ‘Plenty. I don’t know how you got this tiny scar, just here,’ he said, running a finger beneath her chin. ‘I don’t know what your middle name is. I don’t know how it is that you don’t have to say anything yet I can hear your voice in my mind and I feel I know what you’re thinking. I also don’t know the square root of eighty-three.’
She laughed helplessly, pushing him away but not losing contact with his fingers. She never wanted to lose contact. ‘Fool.’
‘I envy fools and their innocence,’ he admitted and Stella heard the wistful note, understanding what had prompted it.
She threw him a look of sympathy. ‘Has Mr Guilt arrived?’
‘Knocking at the door but I refuse to answer.’
‘Good, ignore him.’
‘He’ll smash it down, of course.’
‘But we’ll be gone by then,’ she assured, smoothing back the hair that habitually wanted to flop across his forehead. ‘We shall climb down off this balcony and run away from all those people making us listen to Mr Guilt.’
He moved fast to kiss her, chuckling at the mental image she’d prompted, but a moment later he looked up from her lips with an earnest expression. ‘When this is done, Stella, I want you to run away.’
The Last Dance Page 32
