Valley of Silence
Page 55

He tried to paint quick snapshots with words, so she could see the variety, the contrasts, the changes. He could all but see her mind opening to take it in. She asked dozens of questions, particularly when something he related expanded or contradicted what she’d read when in his library.
“I’ve wondered what lies beyond the sea.” She propped her chin on her fist as he poured more wine. “Other lands, other cultures. It seems that if we were once a part of Ireland, that there may be parts of Italy and America, Russia, all those wondrous places here, in this world, too. One day... I’d like to see an elephant.”
“An elephant.”
She laughed. “Aye, an elephant. And a zebra and a kangaroo. I’d like to see the paintings from the artists you’ve seen, and the ones I found in your books. Michelangelo and DaVinci, Van Gogh, Monet, Beethoven.”
“Beethoven was a composer. I don’t believe he could paint.”
“That’s right, sure, that’s right. The Moonlight Sonata, and all those symphonies with numbers. It’s the wine muddling it up a bit. I’d like to see a violin, and a piano. And an electric guitar. Do you play any of those?”
“Actually, it’s a little known fact that there were six original Beatles. Never mind.”
“I know. John, Paul, George and Ringo.”
“You’ve got a memory like that elephant you’d like to see.”
“As long as you remember it, it belongs to you. I’ll likely never see an elephant, but I’ll have orange trees one day. The seeds in the hothouse pots are sprouting.” She held her thumb and forefinger up, close together. “That bit of green coming out of the dirt. Glenna tells me the blossoms will be very fragrant.”
“Yes, they will be.”
“And I took other things.”
It amused him to hear the confessional tone in her voice. “So, you’ve sticky fingers, have you?”
“I thought, if I’m not meant to take them to Geall, they won’t go. I took a cutting of your roses. All right, well, three cuttings. I was greedy. And a photograph Glenna took of Larkin and me. And a book. I confess it, I took a book right out of your library. It’s a thief I am.”
“Which book?”
“It was poems by Yeats. I wanted it particularly because he was Irish it said, and it seemed important I bring something that was written down by an Irishman.”
Because you were Irish, she thought. Because the book was yours.
“And the poems were so beautiful and strong,” she continued. “I told myself I was going to give it back to you once I’d copied more down, but that’s a lie. I’m keeping it.”
He laughed, shook his head. “Consider it a gift.”
“Thank you, but I’ll happily pay you for it.” She rose, stepped over to where he sat. “And you may name the price.” She sat on his lap, linked her arms around his neck. “He wrote something, your Yeats, that made me think of you, and especially what we have between us tonight. He wrote: ‘I spread my dreams at your feet. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’”
She combed her fingers through his hair. “You can give me your dreams, Cian. I’ll tread softly.”
Impossibly moved, he rested his cheek against hers. “You’re unlike any other.”
“With you, I’m more than I ever was. Will you come out, stand for a while on the balcony with me? I’d like to look at the moon and the stars.”
He rose with her, but when he turned, she drew him back. “No, the bedroom balcony.”
He thought of her mother, of what she’d seen. “Are you sure?”
“I am. I stood out there today, alone. I want to stand there with you, in the night. I want you to kiss me there so I’ll remember it all of my life.”
“You’ll want a cloak. It’s cold.”
“Geallian woman are made of sterner stuff.”
And when she led the way, when her hand gripped his tight as she opened the balcony doors, he thought, yes, yes, she was.
Chapter 14
H e kissed her on the balcony, and she would remember it, all of it. She wouldn’t forget the quiet music of the night, the chill in the air, the easy skill of his mouth.
Tonight she wouldn’t think of sunrise and the obligations that came with it. The night was his time, and while she was with him, it would be hers.
“You’ve kissed many women.”
He smiled a little, brushed his lips over hers again. “I have.”
“Hundreds.”
“At least.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Thousands.”
“Very likely.”
“Hmm.” She wandered away from him, then turned, leaning back on the stone rail. “I think I’ll make a decree, that every man must come and kiss their queen. So I can catch up. At the same time it would be a kind of study, a comparison. I could see how you rate in this particular skill.”
“Interesting. I’m afraid you’d find your countrymen sadly lacking.”
“Oh? How can you be sure? Have you ever kissed a man of Geall?”
He laughed. “Clever, aren’t you?”
“So I’m told.” She stayed as she was when he moved to her, when he caged her in by laying his hands on the rail on either side of her. “Does your taste run to clever women?”
“Currently, when their eyes are like night fog, and their hair the color of polished oak.”
“Gray and brown. I always thought they were such dull colors, but nothing about me feels dull when I’m with you.” She laid a hand on his heart. Though it didn’t beat, she saw the pulse of it in his eyes. “I don’t feel shy with you, or nervous. I did, until you kissed me.”
She pressed her lips to where her hand had laid. “Then I thought, well of course. I should have known. A curtain lifted inside me. I don’t think it will ever close again.”
“You bring the light inside me, Moira.” He didn’t say, not to her, not to himself, that when he left her it would go out again.
“The moon’s clear tonight, and the stars shine.” She laid her hands on his. “We’ll leave the drapes open until it’s time for sleep.”
She went inside with him, into a room shimmering with moonlight and candlelight. She knew what it would be now, the warmth that went to heat, and the heat that went to fire. And all the thrills and sensations that came between.