Miss Pemberley struggled vainly beneath him. So nonsense and wine and bottled wiles were no match for a bound, half-drugged assailant. Contempt exhilarated him. His fingers tightened. The sputtering croaks that escaped his grasp were the most honest sounds to yet pass her lips. Her smile was extinguished, as was the beguiling sparkle in her eyes. She would know the inexorable retreat of consciousness under the triumphant gaze of an adversary. She would know what he had known one time too many.
Illya thrust back his head to better see her defeat. Her wide eyes held fast to his, as determinedly as he gripped her throat. Twin pools, translucent, bottomless, reflecting the dim light of the room. He resisted their pull with a shake of his head. Damn that gas. Still their gaze did not break. Damn that perfume. He saw fear and desperate entreaty and something else. Something unexpected. He stared into their depths, trying to name it. Ruefulness, almost self-deprecation. It had shone there before, unrecognized. His own words from the pub returned. How is it that no one has yet strangled you?
Several things broke into his awareness at the same instant; the line of Miss Pemberley's arms stretching above her head, the dark trails of makeup extending toward her hairline, the slick wetness beneath his fingertips. He felt as if another drink had been flung into his face, a scalding hot one. His fury subsided. His grip slackened. As lethargy overtook his limbs, he collapsed beside her.
Miss Pemberley drew a shuddering breath and erupted into a fit of coughing. Fresh tears welled at the corners of her eyes. Illya watched them fall, his head pounding, half convinced he was waking from a dream. Had he actually believed her to be a Thrush agent? Had he truly almost throttled her? His mind recoiled.
Miss Pemberley shifted her nearest arm, bound with the other to the headboard, and wiped the side of her face. "God, I hate crying at work," she said in a hoarse whisper.
No furious denunciations? No well-deserved epithets? He stared at her in perplexity. Would she so easily overlook the unpardonable? He doubted it. Apologies remained in order. His tongue felt thick, his throat tight. He cleared it. Her tear-stained face turned toward his.
Illya had a revelation. "Your eyes are grey."
Her brows quirked at his evident disenchantment. "Grey as dishwater," she confirmed. The sparkle rekindled in those eyes, a mocking amusement directed as much at herself as at him. He would have preferred a tongue-lashing. It was the fitting response to his actions. Why could she not do this properly?
Her lips curved into a ghost of her wry smile. "I gave you two Capsule Rs."
"Two?" he squawked. At her shush, he said more quietly, "Two Capsules R?" His sluggish brain recalled the probable side-effects. Hostility. Check. With that amount of stimulant coursing through his system, it was the least of his worries. "You are out to get me."
"Illya, if I'd been out to get you, you'd be the one tied to the bedpost."
As his name passed her lips for the first time, his heart skipped. Probably a cardiac episode. Adopting what he hoped were dampening tones, he said, "This is hardly the time for levity…Faustina."
He immediately regretted speaking her name. The veil of formality between them was lifted. Without it, he felt awkward and exposed. His voice grew frostier. "One of us could have died."
"Both of us might, if we don't get out of here."
Despite her flippancy, he saw she was in earnest. He reexamined the moments before the darkness overtook him. The sudden searing pain at his chest. The cloud of toxin fouling the air. He pressed back further. Marsden's telephone message. The girl in the Club. He frowned. "Thrush got to Donald."
The door knob rattled. As he shut his eyes and resumed his waking position, Faustina whispered, "Wrong bird."
His closed lids glowed red as bright light streaked across the room. A singsong voice breathed, "How are you, dear? Resting comfortably?"
Edith Partridge. Such pleasant, refined speech should call to mind chintz-covered armchairs and china teacups, not manacles and iron maidens.
Faustina answered, "Yes, Mrs. P."
"Splendid. And Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Still asleep on the job."
The wound on his chest throbbed. He fought to keep his brow from furrowing. If Faustina went five minutes without saying something provocative, he would forswear turtlenecks.
"You are quite certain he hasn't stirred?" Edith twittered.
"Quite. Perhaps he has a poor constitution. He might never wake up."
Five seconds. His wardrobe was safe.
"Don't be morbid, dear. We shall hold out hope that the young man is more robust than it appears. However, it does prove the effectiveness of the gas. I don't anticipate any trouble recovering Emory." The room darkened as the door was pulled closed. "I hope those Thrush men don't dawdle. I'm a stickler for punctuality, you know."
At the click of the latch, Illya opened his eyes. "Mad as a March hare," he declared, the designation widely applicable.
Faustina chuckled. "She has a certain charm, though, for grade-A loon."
He once again saw the hot poker closing in and felt the heat on his cheek. He swallowed. "You were too charmed to overpower her, I gather."
She twisted to face him, grey eyes dark and churning. "Sadistic old ladies with a penchant for sharp objects are a weakness of mine. Wasn't that in my profile?"
"Your profile was inadequate," he replied dryly, turning his head. Her seas were beginning to build. Never again would he disparage competence, a serene and predictable quality. A barometer should come standard issue when working with her. "I shall recommend certain addenda when this is over."
She bared her teeth, white breakers against the shore. "If that includes striking a senior agent, then I'll be sure to deserve it. That earlier effort wasn't my best."
He rolled onto his shoulder with a grunt. "If our current predicament is an example of your best effort, I do not foresee your following Miss Dancer anytime soon."
The headboard rattled as she strained forward, her confined hands whirling along to a string of exotic speculations about his antecedents. When she paused for breath, he said, "Clearly you are versed in more languages than were listed. Worthy of noting, perhaps, but not of a promotion." To continue arguing was madness, but he could not resist. Most everyone was mad in this Affair.
"Clearly you have no idea what Harry considers worthy," she stormed. "Besides, he's putty in my hands, remember?"
He did not want to imagine her hands anywhere near Beldon. "I don't believe that."
She searched his face. "Well, as your small mind stretches that far, maybe it can also encompass the idea of four to one. Unless the golden boys of Section II laugh at such odds."
"Of course, we do. Vainglory is one of the chief requirements. You at least qualify in that regard."
She returned a crack of mirthless laughter, then spat, "Not so vainglorious that I longed to die at the end of your Special."
He blinked, his mind suddenly consumed by 17th century metaphysical poets and their bawdier puns. He dragged his errant thoughts to the present and found he had not been alone on his mental excursion. Her tempest had passed as quickly as it had arisen. A playful smile invited him to return one of his own. He disdained such familiarity. "Very funny," he acknowledged stiffly, his expression pained.
Her grin broadened, and a chuckle rumbled in her throat like receding thunder. On further consideration, he found no advantage in appearing priggish. His lips curved slightly, and his gaze softened.
"So, angelochek moi, you have a sense of humor after all." Something swam in the depths of her eyes, fierce and hungry. Then it flitted away, and all was sun-dappled tranquility as she asked, "How do you feel?"
"Like I narrowly avoided a myocardial infarction."
He rolled his eyes at her doctorly nod. Contrition had also disappeared over the horizon.
"Constitution of Rasputin," she said decidedly.
"No, of a Kuryakin. Luckily for you, we have an amazing aptitude for recovery."
The disconcerting shadow darted through her eyes once more. "Yes, that would be very lucky for me."
A tidal wave of carnal thoughts crashed over him. "I've never told this to another woman," he said, rolling to his back, fingers itching to return to her throat, "but I think I may hate you."
"Flatterer," she replied, and he sensed her Cheshire Cat grin.
Before he could formulate a suitably quelling response, the telephone rang. His bedmate's response was immediate and palpable. She tensed, her impudent humor giving way to a wary alertness. His own senses quickened in expectancy.
"That's the signal," she said, when the ringing ceased. "Thrush is here, and they've brought Emory Partridge."
