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Oh, and the window…
It was big. It was high. And it was beautiful. Through it, I could see lights glittering as far as the eye could see. In the distance, a dark band cut through the luminous magic of Paris. The Seine. I gazed, unable to look away. If the view was this amazing in the middle of the night, what would it look like in the morning?
‘Up here you won’t bother anyone,’ Mr Ambrose said, his voice cool and detached, while his fingers gently stroked my cheek. ‘And I can lock you in when I need to stop you from causing trouble.’
I gazed once more at the beautiful room—then looked up at his face, only inches away, and pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek.
‘That’s so considerate of you. It’s been some time since I had leisure to practice my lock-breaking skills.’
Making an indistinct noise at the back of his throat, he marched over to the window, to a cot that was already waiting there. A cot without the barest hint of dust on it. This hadn’t been standing here a long time, like everything else in the room, a realization surfaced in my befuddled mind. He’d had it brought up especially for me, long before I’d stumbled drunk into his office downstairs. Warmth rose in my chest. Yet as I looked up into his eyes, I saw nothing but ice there. Quickly, he looked away.
‘Here,’ he said, gruffly, and lowered me onto the cot. With one quick jerk, he pulled a blanket over me. ‘Sleep it off. I need you alert in the morning, and ready to continue with the investigation.’
Ready to be out of your way, you mean.
‘Why can’t you look at me? Why do you want to avoid me?’ Would I normally have asked such a question straight out? Probably not. But in my pleasantly befuddled state, it seemed the logical thing to do.
His eyes flashed.
‘I could ask you the same thing. Why, Lillian?’ His voice was like a knife, cutting straight to the chase, and through it, straight into my heart. ‘Why did you say no?’
I flinched. There was no need to ask what he was referring to.
‘You know why.’ Gently I reached up to touch his cheek, but missed and bumped his nose instead. Oh well, who said I couldn’t invent the romantic nosebump?
Capturing my hand between both of his, he stared at me, cold, controlled rage in his eyes. ‘Just because of a few stupid words in a wedding vow? Honour and obey?’
‘Words you would hold me to.’
At least he didn’t try to deny it. Turning away, he gazed out through the dirt-stained window.
‘Why did you leave?’ It was an audacious question. A question about pain, and secrets of the heart. A question I’d probably never have asked if I were sober. Luckily, I was still completely sloshed.[19]
For a moment or two, he didn’t reply. The silence was deafening. But then…
‘When you said no to me, I…’
‘Yes?’
At his sides, his hands balled into fists.
‘It was the first time I wanted to punch something without having a debtor in front of me. Even when directed against a valid target, violence is mostly a waste of time. And there was I, wanting to punch without knowing whom or what or why! And every time the logical part of my mind told me I should probably try punching you, I felt like punching myself, and there is nothing more bloody illogical in the entire world!’
There was a thunderous thud. It was over so quickly, I had hardly time to blink. Had that really just happened? Had I just seen Mr Rikkard Cool-As-An-Icecube Ambrose punch the wall?
‘I needed to get out of there.’ His voice had sunken to an arctic whisper. ‘I grabbed the first file from my “problematic business” pile, and jumped into a carriage. And as the non-existent deity of fate would have it, the business I ended up giving a thorough examination was this one. Do you have any idea what I’ve had to suffer through the last few weeks? If I have to hear one more romantic aria sung by an overweight fool in a parrot costume…!’
‘My condolences. But, you know, my life back in London hasn’t been exactly a picnic, either.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Oh yes indeed, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Can you imagine how hard it is to make up excuses for why you’re being followed everywhere by a turban-wearing mountain wearing a giant beard and sabre?’
‘I don’t have to imagine. I know the feeling well. And I always say he’s here to cut the throat of anyone who thinks of harming me.’
‘Well, for some reason, that wasn’t something I wanted to tell my lady friends over afternoon tea.’
We lapsed into silence again. And in the silence, in the dark of this dusty attic in Paris, the sadness and hurt between us shifted and morphed into something else. Something warm. Something that drew us together.
