= 9 =

Dawn peeks through the curtains as Ruth awakes. Not recognising the room, she is momentarily disoriented until she feels a warm breath on her back and a heavy hand on her hip. It is then that she remembers.

Gently placing the hand on the mattress, she turns slowly to face a slumbering Harry. Deep in sleep, her movement elicits barely a murmur, leaving her free to examine him.

Dear, beautiful Harry.

Their coupling had been one passionate, lingering act of not only pleasure, but of communion. How wonderful it was to love him completely; to explore his body and for him to explore hers, discovering what had for years laid beneath sober office attire. His long, broad contours held as much fascination for her as her curves had for him. She had marvelled at the feel of his skin as she ran a knuckle up and down his arm and side. She does this now, but the soft dawn also brings with it new discoveries.

She traces the puckered skin on his shoulder – a bullet wound he sustained almost six years ago now.

"Don't get shot," she told him on the docks before she left; and he promised not to. Has he kept his promise?

Continuing her exploration, she runs a hand down his chest, where she finds not a bullet wound, but lacerations. She feels his back, and finds similar welts there, too. What on earth has happened to him? Her imagination instantly kicks in, dreaming up all sorts of nightmare scenarios until the tears begin to fall.

"Ruth?"

Harry's voice is heavy with concern and sleep. "What's wrong, my love?"

In answer she kisses his chest, pulling him into a tight embrace. He returns her hug, feeling her hot tears on his skin.

She struggles to speak. "When – when I left it was so you could go on fighting, but these scars, Harry… They're horrific. How…?"

He squints, as though in pain, compelling her to hastily say, "You don't have to tell me…"

"Yes." he says stoically, "Yes, I do."

He takes a deep breath. "I was captured in Algeria by mercenaries. I was, as usual, somewhere where I wasn't meant to be, and they didn't take to my trespassing kindly. They were very young men, boys really, and didn't know who they were holding at first; but somehow they found out who I was, which promptly changed their tune."

He told her very briefly how he'd been kept in a tiny hut in the back of Algiers, and tortured by degrees, first with fist, then baton, and finally whip; for information on anti Al-Qaeda operations in the UK.

"The trouble was that not being professionals they didn't know where to draw the line, so that the more frustrated they grew, the more brutal they became. Six knew I was in the country, particularly since I liaised with the North African office just weeks before, but they didn't give a damn at first. It was Ros who raised the alarm when I didn't ring in, but Six were stubborn, and by the time they got their act together I'd been imprisoned for three weeks."

Ruth, who has been listening with increasing horror, cries, "My God, three whole weeks?"

It is not the expected pity that he sees in her eyes, but something altogether more heartening – empathy and great love.

"It's okay." he reassures her, "I got out, only needing to spend a few days in hospital. These scars are the only signs that I was ever there now."

"Outwardly perhaps, but what about the mental scars, Harry? You couldn't have gone through three weeks of torture without ending up with a few of those." She shakes her head. "You shouldn't have had to go through this. If I'd gone to gaol you wouldn't have had to trapeze through North Africa in the first place."

"But you would have been in gaol, Ruth; I'd have lost you anyway."

"How do you know? We're resourceful people; we'd have found a way to see each other somehow." She wiped her eyes fitfully. "It was always a possibility that you might follow me, but since I survived North Africa unscathed I thought that you would, too."

"Ruth, there's nothing to feel guilty about. You yourself said that we made the right decision."

"We did, but that doesn't stop me from wanting you safe, or at least being there for you when things go wrong."

Harry sighs. "I know the feeling; but at least you knew where I was, what I'd be doing, whereas I didn't even have that comfort."

She smiles ruefully, the yearning in his voice and eyes too painful to bear. "Oh Harry," she murmurs, "You knew there would be little opportunity for contact. It was hard enough getting that postcard to you."

He strokes her cheek. "I know. I…"

He cannot speak, stupefied by the recollection of when the postcard landed on his doorstep. He remembers sinking down to the hallway floor when he read it, overcome by a mixture of elation, relief, longing and grief.

"Harry?"

Now it is he that weeps, that clutches her close.

"I can't believe I'm here; you're here. I can't believe…"

He is silenced by the rain of kisses falling on his chest, neck and jaw in rapid succession. When her eyes are level with his, he stares into the teary blue orbs, seeing himself reflected in them. Her lips descend, not to his mouth, but to his cheek, her tongue delicately licking away the teardrops. His heart beats hard and fast as anguish intermingles with desire, desire mounting when he sees the raw need in her eyes.

What follows is a wild clash of lips, tongues, bodies, as they embrace, entwine, entangle; embarking once more on the journey that will meld them into one.