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

Then she knew. It was Blackdown.

She should have been terrified of him, now that she knew he was an Ofan-killer. But this wasn’t terror that sent her climbing silently still higher. It was something else. Her heart was beating so fast and so hard that she was sure it was booming out like a drum. Then she could see him. The staircase opened directly into the cupola, which was a simple glass room, more rectangular than square. A deep, upholstered bench, like a wide window seat, was built around all four walls and liberally tossed with cushions. Blackdown was lying along one side, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, his back propped up by big pillows. The book he held was tiny, its pigskin binding white. He held it in one hand, his other hand behind his head. She watched him read, hardly daring to breathe. If he looked up—when he looked up—he would see her head almost at floor level. She would look like a kobold popping up out of the earth. Should she try to descend, or simply keep climbing? She couldn’t decide, and in the end, her predicament was too ridiculous. She laughed.

He looked up and for just a moment his eyes, as gray as the rain outside, were blank with surprise. But then he sat up. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she said. “I did not wish to disturb you.” She started to go back down the stairs.

“No.” He put his book down quickly on the floor, took two light steps over to the stairwell, and reached out a hand. “Come back.”

She put her hand out and he took it, pulling her gently up and into the glass room. “Oh.” She looked around. The rainy city stretched out on all sides; it was like being a bird up on a chimney, except that the falling rain never reached her. “How magical.”

His fingers were warm around hers; no leather between them now.

“Please,” he said gently. “Do sit. I wish I had refreshment to offer you. But I neglected to procure Madeira and biscuits before coming up here.”

She sat and looked down on Berkeley Square, all gray and green and misty. “What a perfect place,” she said. “I had no idea it was here.”

He sat down next to her and took her hand again. “It is something of a secret,” he said. “Everyone knows of it, but no one thinks to come up. I was almost afraid I should discover it had been blown away in a storm, or dismantled. But when I climbed up here this morning, I found all just as I had left it. This book even, still here.”

“What is it?” She was grateful that they were talking of nothing, but there was her hand in his, and as they talked their fingers intertwined of their own accord.

“John Donne,” he said. “His early works. I had forgotten that I was reading them here before I left for Spain. Now I find they are useful to me.” He glanced at her for a moment. “Personal liberty and social responsibility,” he said. “Do you ever think about those things?”

She smiled. “Oh, all the time.”

He squeezed her hand and said nothing. He seemed troubled in spirit.

“I have not read Donne,” she said after a moment.

“No, I wouldn’t suppose that you had.” His fingers slipped more intimately in among hers. “His early poems are not . . .” He seemed to be searching for the right words. “I suppose they are not considered appropriate for . . . young ladies.”

Julia’s eyebrows flew up. “I see.”

“Are you always careful of your purity, Julia?” His voice was soft, his eyes half-lidded.

What was he asking her? She withdrew her hand a little, but he kept it firmly in his own. “Of course,” she said automatically, for it was the only possible answer. But as she said it she remembered that it had been she who pulled his head down to hers for a second kiss. “Or rather, I think I am. I mean . . .” She looked at her hand, caught in his. “Of what are we talking?”

He smiled, almost sadly. “My apologies.” He let go of her hand. “I am out of practice with gently reared young ladies, I’m afraid.” He opened his other hand. In his palm was, of all things, a small, brown acorn. He must have been holding it all along. He bent and placed it carefully on top of the book, next to the gold embossed word on the cover: ELEGIES. He traced that word with one finger. “Of what are we talking?” He repeated her question dreamily. Then he sat up straight, turned, and his eyes were intent upon hers. “Do you protect yourself against knowledge? Against feeling? Do you always do and feel what you are told? Are you always safe? Or do you yearn to know, to feel, more?”

“I yearn to know more,” she said, and it felt as if the words were bursting from her, so desperately were they true. But then she sat silent, not knowing how to proceed.

His hand came slowly up, almost as if he feared he might scare her away. “‘License my roving hands,’” he whispered. “‘Let them go . . .’” He stroked her cheek, so softly that it felt like the raindrops that weren’t falling on her skin.

“Nicholas,” she murmured, hearing the catch in her voice. She was in his arms, and he was kissing her tenderly, his fingers tangling in her hair. He ended the kiss and simply buried his face in her hair, his hands stroking her shoulders. His rough cheek was against hers and she breathed in the scent of him.

He pulled back and looked again into her eyes, one hand slipping around to rest at her waist, the other cradling the back of her head. “We seem to meet in the rain,” he said.

“Please . . .” She put her hands on his chest. At the moment, she didn’t care who he was, or whether he was in league with the Russian. “Kiss me