The River of No Return by Bee Ridgway (best novels of all time txt) 📕

mouth. But as he pulled away, he stood up. He looked down at her. She lay at her ease across the cushions, late-afternoon sunlight burnishing her skin and casting half her body in warm shadow. She was perfect, from her ten orderly toes to the curls that decorated her sex, to her dream-soft face. He had said he loved her and it was true. He did.

“I love you,” he said again. “I didn’t know it. But I now do. I think I always did.”

Her smile seemed to die, although it stayed in place. Or perhaps it was a trick of the light, for she spoke immediately. “I love you,” she said, quite flatly for all that the words were sure and strong. She let it be at that.

It wasn’t a moment of jubilation, somehow. But it was enough. He reached for her.

She held up a hand, stopping him. She looked resolved. It was strange. “You were right,” she said. “We must descend.”

“We must also talk, Julia. Make plans. I must tell you—”

“I know,” she interrupted him. “I know you have things to tell me.” She glanced down at her hands and his eyes followed hers. Her fingers were tightly, tensely entwined. “But not now. Let now be . . . now.”

“I don’t want there to be secrets between us,” he said. She was as lovely as a woodland dryad. But she was harboring some care. He could sense it.

She shook her head matter-of-factly, then sat up and began repinning her hair. “No,” she said. “Tomorrow.” She moved with calm purpose, as if she weren’t naked at all. He decided he loved the way she sat. He loved the way she was just this second unconsciously scratching her knee as she looked at him. He loved the way she . . .

“Are you daydreaming?”

He came back to earth. “Yes. About you.”

Now she smiled, and her strange mood seemed to vanish. “Foolish man. Shall we meet here again tomorrow? After breakfast? And tell one another our secrets?”

“Breakfast? That’s tomorrow.” He frowned.

“Yes. I just said so.”

“I can’t wait that long.” He reached for her, pulling her to her feet and against him. “You are too delicious, Julia. I must have you again today. Tonight at the latest. Come to my rooms after everyone is asleep.”

She pushed her hands against his chest. “You stayed away effortlessly before. For days.”

Nick nipped her back in against him, stroking his hands down and up again. “That was before. When I still had a fragment of self-control and sanity. Although I did come up here several times looking for you.”

She snuggled close. “You did? So did I.” She reached up on tiptoes for a kiss.

But when they pulled apart this time, Julia was all business. “I shall not come to you tonight, Nick,” she said, stepping out of his embrace. “It’s too great a risk. Shall we meet here tomorrow? To talk.”

“Oh, yes, to talk.”

“Good.” She looked about her at the clothes that were strewn across the floor. “Will you hand me my shift, over there? To teach thee, I will dress first.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Nick found he couldn’t bear the thought of making polite and proper conversation over dinner with the woman who had just turned his life inside out. Instead he left via the kitchens, grabbing a wedge of game pie for himself and a bone for the dog. Then he struck out with Solvig, who had chewed off her bandage and seemed as good as new, for a long evening’s walk north, up through Camden Town and then over the fields to Highgate Hill. He leaned against a stile, ate his pie, and considered the story of Dick Whittington. It was here that young Dick, discouraged and leaving the big city behind, had heard the Bow Bells ring out his fate: “Turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London.” The young man had gone back down the long hill to find that his cat had made him a fortune. Whittington married, and led the city into the future.

The sun was thinking about setting now, and the city below—so small by twenty-first-century standards—was beginning to glow in the lengthening light, the river uncurling through it like a silver chain. The great, soot-stained dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral looked like the round breast of a contented gray goose, the other, smaller steeples like her goslings, beaks pointing upward. Nick scratched Solvig’s broad forehead. She sighed.

Dick Whittington, Nick Davenant . . . could he, Nick, be called back again to the London he loved, this London? Bells were ringing, tolling across the city, their discordant conversation carried to him on the breeze. Could they tell him the future? He listened for a moment. But they were just bells. He supposed the bells didn’t need to talk to him, for he knew the future of London Town.

Down there in the Houses of Parliament the lords were probably still giving their speeches. The Marquess of Blackdown was not among them. And those venerable medieval buildings gleaming now in the long light—they would go up in flames soon enough. Nick couldn’t remember now why Parliament would burn, but he could see Turner’s painting of the conflagration in his mind’s eye—a terrible inferno. “‘Then the fire of the Lord fell,’” Nick said to the city, “‘and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood, and the stones, and the dust.’” Nick thought about the Blitz, and that three-dimensional image of St. Paul’s dome that Ahn had shown him. The dome, blasted half away. And then . . . the Pale.

Swallows were swooping back and forth across the sky. It was a five-mile walk back to Berkeley Square. “Come on, Solvig,” Nick said. The huge dog got to her feet, the bone he’d brought for her clamped fast in her jaws. She clearly intended to carry it all the way home. Nick let his hand find the acorn. The bells were still ringing.

* * *

Julia wanted no dinner, and she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She certainly didn’t want to see Nick tonight. She needed to think.

She