Chapter Thirteen
With an unsettled mind and a heart the wrong size for the space in his chest, Foye walked downstairs to the interior courtyard of the Godards house. Would Sabine come down? What if her uncle interfered or refused to let her leave him? They might not see each other before she and Godard left.
He jiggled some loose change in his coat pocket as he waited. Not English coins. Turkish paras. He hadn’t felt this anxious over a woman since he was twenty, for God’s sake. He was resigned to the path his heart had led him to. He had not come to Turkey to fall in love, and yet he had. He wanted Sabine as badly as ever. More, even.
The sound of footsteps on stone made him look up. Sabine was crossing the courtyard at a brisk pace, and his heart dove toward his toes. There had been any number of nights when he had been perfectly happy to send himself to perdition by self-satisfying an urge for sexual release. None of those longings had ever involved wishing for a partner to assist. Until now. He was in a bad way over her.
She walked toward the fountain where he’d stopped to wait. The sway of her skirts more than suggested the curves beneath the muslin. For a small woman, she had extremely feminine curves. He knew that. He’d held her in his arms often enough to know. He was a patient man, or thought so until now. He did not want to wait to make Sabine his. He wanted her to be his so there would be no chance of her changing her mind or falling out of love with him. So much might happen between now and whenever it was that they were back in England and able to deal with her situation. Hell, Sir Henry could live with them, if he wanted to. Or he’d move to Oxford himself and live with the Godards. So help him, he would.
Foye stopped jingling the coins in his pocket. She was smiling at him, a little sadly, he fancied. At that moment be would have given his life for the right to take her in his arms in front of anyone who might be looking. It wasn’t as if he intended to make off with Sabine and ravish her, though true enough, he had a growing set of fantasies about her in which he did just that.
“Thank you for coming,” he said when she was near enough to hear him clearly. Her mouth was tense, and one of her hands was fisted at her side. He didn’t move toward her or change his position in any way. No sense letting the servants guess.
She stopped a few feet away so that, should anyone happen to see them, they would see nothing improper. “Foye,” she whispered.
When he looked into her eyes, he knew she was seeing more than he wanted anyone to see about the man he was. A turbaned servant crossed the courtyard, and they fell silent until the man disappeared into another part of the house. Foye had on his overcoat, but he was still holding his hat, and he studied the brim while he chose his words because he didn’t want to say me wrong thing.
“I wish we weren’t going,” she said while he was still trying to marshal his thoughts into words. “I wish we were staying here. Or that we were going with you.”
“We knew you would be going to Kilis,” he said. The last thing he wanted to do was make her unhappier than she already was. They would be separated for a while. So what? Lovers and couples parted company all the time without the distance spelling disaster for the relationship. “You’ll return, or I’ll join you in some other city. In any event, we’ll be back in England one day.”
“And you? Are you really leaving Buyukdere? Where will you go?” She took a step closer. “How will I write to you, Foye?”
“Write care of Mr. Lucey. He’ll see my correspondence is forwarded.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll write to you at the British consulate in Aleppo.” So long as the Godards left word of their next destination, his letters would eventually find her.
Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. She nodded. “Yes, all right.”
“I’ll be returning to England before long,” he said. “After Damascus, I expect. By the new year, I should be home. Write to me at Maralee House in St. Ives, Cornwall, after that. If I’m not in London, I’ll be there.”
“Maralee House, St. Ives, Cornwall.” She nodded.
“If you’re not sure where to direct your letters, direct them there.”
“I shall, then. Thank you.”
“You’ll see the house one day and love it as I do.”
She swiped a hand over her eye. “Yes, I’m sure I shall, Foye.”
Foye took a folded slip of paper from his coat pocket. “In the meantime, if anything should happen, if you should find yourself in need of any assistance, whether you are in England or here, and the Luceys cannot help you, write to my solicitor, Mr. George Brook.” He gave her the paper on which he had written his lawyer’s address. “I’ve already sent him instructions on your behalf. If you do write him, my letter is likely to have arrived beforehand.”
“That’s very generous of you.” She took the paper and scanned the address before she put the sheet in her pocket. “Thank you.” The corner of her mouth pulled down.
Foye stepped forward. But, damn, he didn’t dare touch her. “My love, don’t cry.”
“I shan’t.” She gave a tight shake of her head.
“Will you draw me a likeness of you, Sabine?”
She didn’t answer him.
“Will you?” He took a step toward her. “Or do you intend to send me away with nothing by which to remember you?”
She raised her face to his and smiled. He thought his heart would break at the sight. “No lock of hair, my lord?”
He locked gazes with her. “A self-portrait, Sabine, so I may remember you and know with each stroke of your pencil that you thought of me.”
She didn’t answer, and in the silence, Foye could guess nothing of her thoughts. She nodded. “Very well.”
He squeezed the brim of his hat and brought himself to the mark. “I love you, Sabine. You’ve become my heart and soul since we met. I will wait for you.”
She reached for his hand and curled her fingers around his. “And I you, Foye.”
“When you are able, we’ll be married, if you’ll do me the honor.”
She gently squeezed his hand. “If you say you love me still, I shall, Foye.”
They stood like that, hand in hand, each silent and knowing they must part. “Convince your uncle not to visit Kilis,” he said. “Have nothing to do with Nazim Pasha.”
“Do you think I haven’t tried?” she asked.
He stared at her, keeping the contact between them even when it went beyond polite. “His hands are nearly useless,” he said. “He can barely walk. Try as he might, he cannot hide his frailty from anyone. Tell him he mustn’t make the journey. Nor should you trust Nazim Pasha.” He tightened his hand around hers. “This is madness. He admires you too much. His reputation is not a pleasant one, Sabine.”
Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “The pasha, you mean?”
“Yes, the pasha. He admires you too much. Everyone saw it. I am not the only man to have noticed his attentions to you.”
She opened her mouth to say something, then didn’t. The edge of her mouth twitched. “But I love you,” she said. “Not the pasha.”
He took a step toward her and then stopped. “Sabine, you will not be safe.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the upper portion of the house. “Ask your uncle’s servant. Ask him if Nazim Pasha isn’t making a fortune buying and selling women. Ask him.”
She nodded. “I will try. But I can’t promise you I’ll succeed.”
Foye dug his fingers into the brim of his hat. He wanted to tear the damn thing apart. “With all due respect to your uncle, you should not have to convince him of anything. He should be concerned for your safety. He should know it is his duty to protect you at all costs. I fail to understand why he puts you at risk.” He threw a hand in the air. “He treats you as if you are a man. No matter how clever you are, no matter that you can run rings around anyone ever to graduate Oxford, you are not a man.”
“He wants to finish his book. The north is one of the last places we have to visit. I think if we go there, I can persuade him it’s time to go home. To England.”
“And if his doing so puts you in danger, what then?”
She shrugged. “Finishing his book is his dream. The only one left to him. And you know I am the reason this is all he has left. Oh, Foye. Please. I won’t take that from him, too.”
His anger, always slow to boil over, flashed hot. Enough. This was enough. He closed the distance between them, dropping his hat to grab her by the shoulders. “If it were me I’d give my life before I put you in danger. Your uncle doesn’t feel about you the way I do, Sabine. He doesn’t love you.”
“But he does love me.” She smiled, a sad, heartbreaking curve of her mouth, and Foye caught his breath because that so sad smile tipped him the rest of the way. The very last of his resistance to her ripped away.
He mastered himself, and it was not easy. “I know,” he said. “I know he loves you, as a father would. We love you differently. And God help me, I hope you love me differently!”
She laughed softly. “Yes, Foye.”
“If you cannot persuade him, Sabine, then at least promise you will let me send some of my men with you. I will be in Buyukdere long enough for that. If you cannot convince him, I’ll arrange to send additional armed men with you on your journey.” He met her gaze. “They will be loyal to you, not Nazim Pasha.”
Her mind was more than quick enough to grasp the importance of that. “Thank you,” she said. “That is an excellent precaution.”
Foye nodded. Inside he was wound up tight. He was a man of varied experience. He’d had lovers and mistresses in his life, and when he fell in love, he had been faithful. And yet, he stood before Sabine Godard feeling like an absolute tyro.
“Perhaps it would be wise for you to gather your extra men now. There might not be time later. Nazim Pasha promised we were to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Consider it done.” He glanced behind him, saw a shadowed corner beneath the interior courtyard stairs to the upper floor, and pulled her into the niche formed there. He wrapped his arms around her waist and brought her close up against him. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said.
“Foye,” she said, “someone will see us.”
“I don’t care.” He cupped her chin and tilted her face to his. “Promise me, Sabine.”
“I promise.”
He kissed her, and he didn’t hold much back at all. She stretched up to him, opening her mouth under his, and he swept his tongue inside. He felt her momentary hesitation, and then she relaxed against him and, well. Yes. She was a quick study.
Eventually, he had to let her go. The servants were busy packing for the Godards’ removal tomorrow. The house would be closed up but remain a base of operations while the Godards were in the north. If he kept Sabine here much longer, someone really would see them, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be the subject of gossip again or find that Godard was allied against him before he’d even had a chance.
“Write to me every day,” he said. “And send me your portrait.”
“I shall.”
This was it, then. The last time they would see each other for who knew how long. Sabine brushed her hand through his hair, tangling her fingers in his curls. “Foye,” she said, “promise me you’ll be careful?”
“I will,” he said.
“Good-bye,” she said.
“Not good-bye.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “We’ll see each other again.”
From upstairs, a male voice called for her in heavily accented English.
She stepped away, brushing at her skirts and wiping at her cheeks with the sides of her fingers. “Good-bye, Foye.”
“Adieu, Sabine,” he whispered.