Chapter 37: Final Days
Remington's hand holding hers, he guided Laura to the left wall of the portico of Santa Maria in Cosmedin Church. She gazed questioningly at the marble mask standing against the wall, finding the piece of art somewhat garish… and creepy… not at all in keeping with the Old Masters or more romantic pastels of Monet or the stunning beauty of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, where they had visited not long before.
"La Bocca della Verità, or 'The Mouth of Truth,'" he explained. "The legend is that if you've told a lie, when you put your hand in there…" he indicated the gaping mouth "...It will be bitten off." Her lips pursed with amusement.
"That's ridiculous," she laughed. "It's nothing more than a piece of stone."
"Mmmm," he hummed, mischief twinkling in his eyes. "This… stone… was once used by cattle merchants to drain the blood of cattle sacrificed to Hercules and has taken on mythological powers over the centuries." She rolled her eyes at him. "As history tells it, any number of people have found their fingers severed when the lie told was too severe."
"Uh-huh," she replied, disbelievingly."
"If you're so certain you're correct, go ahead, give it a try," he challenged.
She eyed him at length, then tentatively reached her hand toward to breech in the marble and almost instantly pulled it back.
"It's your legend. You do it.," she insisted, the dare clear in her eyes. He gave her a wary look, but when her lips quirked upwards in a smirk that clearly implied he was afraid to put his money where his mouth was, what choice did he have. Feigning insult, he straightened slightly, a rebellious look upon his face.
"Alright, I will." Reaching outwards, his hand stilled when she spoke.
"Of course, given the number of lies you've told me alone…" she teased. He frowned at her, then defiantly shoved his hand into the orifice…
Then was suddenly yanked forward as he screamed…
Laura's eyes blinked open, and with a groan, she rolled to her back and flung an arm over her eyes.
"Mornin', love," Remington greeted with a bemused note in his voice. Lifting her arm, she peeked out from beneath it, barely noting the endearment which normally suffused her skin with a blush when she heard it. She dropped her arm back down over her eyes.
"It's finally happened," she groused. He frowned at her as he sat down next to her on the bed, resting the tray he'd been carrying near her feet.
"Oh? What is that has finally happened?" She removed her arm from over her eyes and scowled at him.
"You," she accused. "You and your movies invading my dreams. Roman Holiday my—"
"Lau-ra," he cut her off before she finished the thought, the smile on his face not the least bit apologetic. "Dreaming of Rome, were you?"
"Not Rome," she retorted, still glaring at him, "Roman Holiday."
"I can't imagine why dreaming of a whimsical romance would put you in a foul mood." His bright smile grated. He knew exactly why she was irritable and he knew she knew he knew. She might well have dressed him down soundly or wrung his neck, had she not suddenly caught whiff of a crisis averting scent in the air.
"Coffee? You brought me coffee?" She pushed herself up in bed, her eyes only then landing on the tray by her feet. Lifting the coffee mug from the tray, he handed it to her. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the aroma before taking a sip.
"So, tell me, were you Audrey to my Gregory?" he pressed, unable to resist the urge to tweak her further. She wasn't picking up the gauntlet.
"Breakfast, too?" She leaned forward to peer at the tray.
"We've a day of it," he reminded her, standing to walk to the other side of the bed, and taking a seat next to her. "A tour of London, a spot of lunch in the afternoon, then this evening dinner followed by your choice of dancing or perhaps an impromptu trip to the theater." Her sudden sigh drew his eyes.
"Tomorrow's my last day here, and I feel like time's already gone by so fast."
"I know what you mean," he commiserated. "But we'll have almost the entirety of tomorrow to ourselves once I meet with the contractor and update him on the changes we've made."
"Yes, we do have that." She slanted her eyes in his direction as she took a bite of her scrambled eggs – eggs scrambled soft just as she preferred. She had to hand it to him: He never forgot a single detail when it came to her food preferences. "So, where are we going today?"
"Wherever the mood takes us," he answered vaguely. She lifted her eyes heavenward, then took another bite of her eggs.
"And what kind of mood are we in, exactly?"
"My mood is perfectly fine, thank you for asking, although your own seems undecided." With a puff of breath she acknowledged he'd no intention of sharing whatever he might have up his sleeve. Taking a final bite of her eggs, she moved the breakfast tray off her lap and grabbing her cup of coffee, stood. After quickly taking in his navy polo and khakis she determined her wardrobe for the day.
"Well, then, let's get this day started, huh?"
Their day started with a driving tour, first past Parliament and Big Ben, then through Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly . By eleven, Remington had parked the car near Buckingham Palace and thirty minutes later they were amongst the throngs watching the changing of the guard. She had to admit seeing something in person that she'd only read about and seen pictures of previously was fascinating…
But, so far their tour of London had been decidedly… touristy, and she said as much.
"Impressive, eh?" he asked, as they walked hand-in-hand towards the car.
"Very," she agreed, then added, "And very touristy."
"I seem to recall being told," he held up a finger in emphasis, "Not so long ago..."
"I haven't exactly hit the usual tourist attractions."
"Compared to the serial killer and assassins, yes," she didn't deny. "But this isn't what I want…" she extended her arm towards Buckingham Palace, "I want to see the London you'd like me to remember when I get home, rather the London I can see in any tourist brochure."
"Change of mood then, eh?" he smiled, referencing their earlier conversation.
"Change of mood," she confirmed.
"Shall we then?"
A change of mood, indeed, Laura smiled to herself nearly three hours later as she stretched out on her side on the picnic blanket she and Remington had dined upon. When they'd departed Buckingham Palace, Remington had driven the car directly towards Kensington's Launceston Place. He'd earned a curious look from her when he'd parked the car in a residential area, then had drawn her from it. A hand at the small of her back, he'd led her past a row of homes, down a side street, before slight pressure on her back eased her towards her right where they passed through a small, stone archway.
The scene before her had taken her breath away. It was as though they'd suddenly been transported to a quaint English village nestled among the gently rolling hills of the English countryside. The cobblestone streets charmed. The homes whose facades were decorated with trailing vines of wisteria dazzled. The colorful doors that fronted each of the homes welcomed. It was, without a doubt, a scene worthy of one of the vintage romances to which the man beside her was drawn.
"It's beautiful," she breathed.
"Kynance Mews," he shared. "An escape, of a sort, that first year after Daniel took me in. After particularly spectacular rows between he and I, I'd walk this street as I tried to clear my head…" he lifted a brow at her "…not to mention to cool my temper. A bit of tranquility in the midst of the London bustle." She didn't need to ask how he'd discovered the place for to this day it was a habit of his when he was angry or upset to walk, searching for some sort of peace. The man could walk for hours until his normally genial state was restored.
"I can understand that," she answered, quietly, giving his hand a squeeze.
"During the Blitz of World War II, much of the surrounding area was left damaged, reduced to rubble. But, by some miracle, Kynance Mews remained unscathed. I've often wondered if that is what drew me here: Even at a time of war, peace remained here," he contemplated.
"What exactly is a 'mews'?"
"These homes," he indicated either side of the street with a sweep of his hand, "Were once the stables of the wealthy, and the stable hands would be given accommodations in the flats above. They're now some of the most coveted – and expensive – home in all of London."
"I can see why," she appreciated, as they neared the end of the cobbled lane. She let out a small squeak of surprise, when he suddenly turned her and pressed her up against a vine covered wall.
"I've daydreamed a time or two, particularly last summer, of being here with you so I might do this…"
Clasping her face in his hands, he drew her lips up to his. The current that always ran between them sparked to life and with a hum, his hands left her face, and he enfolded her in his embrace. He deepened the kiss, languidly exploring her lips and mouth with his. Ending the kiss with to soft touches of his lips to hers, he stared down into a pair of kiss dazed chocolate colored eyes, and hummed his approval.
From Kynance Mews he'd driven them past Kensington Gardens, Hyde Park and Leicester Square to Lungate Hill where St. Paul's Cathedral – seat of the Bishop of London – resided at the highest point in the city. His chosen destination had earned him a querulous look, as it appeared he'd reverted back to the original course of visiting London landmarks. Casting him a part-disgruntled, part-curious look, she remained unmoving in her seat as he reached for his door and opened it.
"A church?" she questioned. Alighting from the car, he closed his doors then went round and opened hers.
"Trust me, Laura, it's a memory you'll most certainly enjoy when you return home."
They'd stood in line for some twenty-odd minutes to purchase entry tickets, that action alone saying they were there for more than a sudden need to commune with God. Inside the church, he'd urged her along, and for a man who complained incessantly about climbing the three flights of stairs to her loft, he seemed to think nothing of climbing the roughly two-hundred-and-fifty steps which had to be navigated before they'd reached the gallery located within the dome of the church. Assuming he'd dragged them all this way to admire the painted ceiling of the dome, she dutifully looked upwards, all the while grousing inwardly that it appeared the scant bit he'd revealed of himself in the mews had come at a cost: He'd retreated to safer territory.
"Come, stand here," he urged, easing her toward the area where two buttresses met.
"I can see it fine from here," she insisted, a bit testily. His lips quirked up in that irritating smile… the one that meant he knew he'd pricked her temper and was amused that he'd done so.
"Humor me, eh?" With a quiet huff, she stood where he asked, then watched, dumbstruck, as he began to walk away.
"Where are you going?" she asked, voice going up an octave with her mounting frustration. He returned to her side. A pair of fingers tipped up her chin, and he waited for the stubborn woman's eyes to meet his own.
"A little faith, Laura, that's all I ask." Then he was gone before her lips could even part to reply, her eyes following him as he moved to stand next to a similar buttress across the room from her, some hundred-and-thirty odd feet away. His eyes met hers across the distance. Insolently, she crossed her arms and tapped a foot.
"Laura," he whispered. He watched as across the room she blinked hard and visibly straightened, then spun around searching for a speaker, the source of his voice, and found nothing.
"How did you do that?" she called.
"Shhhhhh," he admonished, in a voice so low a person next to him might strain to hear. "It's The Whispering Gallery. Lovers from around the globe come here to whisper sweet nothings in one another's ears." He basked in the brightness of her smile.
"Is that what you intend to do?" she whispered back, delighted by this wondrous surprise and silently admonishing herself for having doubted him. "To whisper sweet nothings in my ear."
"As though you'd be dazzled by meaningless words," he refuted. "No, I intend to whisper sweet somethings in your ear." A trill of pleasure shot through her and she bit her lower lip to stall the joyous smile that threatened to erupt on her face.
"Well, go on," she insisted.
"I love you, Laura." Under his watchful eyes, she blinked rapidly, the words so seldom spoken bringing threatening sheen of tears to her eyes.
"I love you, too," she returned, the emotion in her voice heard by him as her whisper traveled back to him.
"Tá tú mo chroí, Laura, mo ghrá amháin fíor," he murmured. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, even as a smile lifted his lips in answer to the tilt of her head, the furrow of her brow.
"What did you say?" she returned in sotto voice. "What language is that?"
"Trying for a bit of romance here, love," he scolded, mildly. "Ba mhaith liom an chuid eile de mo laethanta a chaitheamh leat, ag argóint leat, ag gáire leat, a roinnt leaba leat." he continued as she listened intently, trying to decipher the language he spoke. "Ba mhaith liom teach, teaghlach leatsa." Whatever it was he spoke, it was rich, melodious… enchanting, even. But still the question on the table remained…
"What did you say?" she asked again.
"Everything in its own time, Laura," he dodged, lifting his brows and smiling at her from across the room. He heard her huff of frustration before he strode across the room to join her, the smile never leaving his face.
"I didn't know you spoke a second language," she accused, as he laid a hand at her back and guided her towards the exit to the gallery.
"I don't believe you've ever asked," he answered, casually. He'd planned this particular trip to the Whispering Gallery before she'd arrived and had conceded to himself then that there would be questions she'd demand answers to.
"Exactly how many languages do you speak?" she persisted, crossing her arms and tipping up her chin.
"Laura, I've lived in Europe nearly the entirety of my life," he reminded. "I speak a smattering of this and that." He cast what passed as an incredulous look in her direction. "I don't know why you're so put out over this. After all, it's not as though you haven't heard me speak another language before."
"I certainly have not!" she retorted, as they began their descent down the stairs, she preceding him.
"In Acapulco," he prompted. She searched her memory as she marched down the stairs, back stiffening when it came to her.
"A half dozen words… Not a full sentence, even a singular one," she rebutted.
"Manuel!" he announced, as though it put the entire matter to rest.
"Manuel? Who's Manuel?"
"The lad that kidnapped me and delivered me to Albee Fervitz. The Ratooi Games case?"
"I know who Fervitz is," she snapped. "But you never spoke to Manuel in anything other than English, at least not in front of me." This time it was he who frowned as he replayed the memory in his head. Oops. No, he hadn't, at least not directly in front of her.
"Mmmm. I believe you're right about that. Had you heard, you'd have frozen me out for weeks, more than likely," he mused. She looked at him over her shoulder.
"Why is that?" He flashed a crooked smile.
"If I recall, correctly," he replied, humor dancing through his voice, "He thought you quite the 'foxy lady' and advised me to… err… do something about it." No way he'd admit Manual had advised him to make her his conquest.
"And what did you say?" He stopped her descent with a hand on her shoulder, then joined her on the stair upon which she stood and faced her. She pressed her back against the wall to allow others to pass, and he closed in on her, bracing himself with an arm against the wall. A pair of intense blue eyes met her curious ones.
"I said it would be to my great pleasure, should you allow me to win your heart." She gave him a doubtful look, then her eyes slipped away.
"You wanted me in your bed," she challenged. A pair of fingers beneath her chin lifted it and he waited until her eyes met his again.
"I could easily admit to both of us that I wanted you in my bed, yes," he acknowledged. "That some part of me knew I needed all of you was… petrifying… but I assure you, a part of me knew just that from the very start. Why else would I have returned and insinuated myself into your life as I did, hmmmm?" He touched his lips to hers. "And I'm so very glad that I did." She lay a hand against his cheek, her brown eyes softening…
Then she slipped away and continued down the stairs.
"You're not off the hook, Mr. Steele," she'd announced, over her shoulder. The impudent remark had left him smiling at her back as he'd followed behind, for the gentle caress of his cheek had said otherwise…
As had the fact she'd not spoken again of either what he'd said in The Whispering Gallery or the language in which he'd said it.
Remington stretched out on the blanket beside Laura, facing her.
"You planned this all along," she indicted quietly, her eyes skirting over the serene lake in St. James Park.
"Mmm hmm," he hummed the admission, while tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"Then what was with all the tourist traps this morning?" she wondered, returning the favor and brushing back the unruly lock of hair that was inclined to fall over his forehead.
"Just having a bit of fun with you, Laura."
"You seem to enjoy doing that," she noted, as he scooted closer to her, and sidled his hand over her waist.
"Mmm hmm," he hummed his confirmation, "It's the very spice of life."
"And is that what you were doing in the Whispering Gallery? Having a bit of fun with me?" she questioned with a pair of raised brows and censorious brown eyes. He leaned in and touched his lips above her brows.
"Not in the least," he dismissed the notion, as his lips traveled past her eyes, to her cheek. She absently stroked his upper arm and shoulder. It was all the encouragement he needed, and he inched closer.
"Then what was that about?" she pursued, a smile playing on her lips as he eased her to her back. He froze, then reared his head back to look fully down upon her. He'd lost track of what she was saying– easy to do when his attention was fully focused on kissing the compliant woman in his arms. When the words clicked and he finally answered, it was with a waggish smile upon semi-pursed lips.
"Everything in its own time, Laura," he replied, as he leaned back in, "And right now, it's time for kissing…"
She rolled her eyes when his lips settled over hers, then she forgot all about her questions.
Remington and Laura had necked like a pair of teens, there on the banks of the lake at St. James Park, then afterwards had jointly agreed to return to Daniel's for a late afternoon ride before showering and dressing for dinner. They'd dined at Andrew Edmunds in Soho – a recently opened five star restaurant to which Thomas had given rave reviews - and afterwards had enjoyed an evening of walking and dancing at, of all places, the London Zoo.
On Monday, a cloud of regret had fallen over the pair as the hands of time had steadily ticked away, both of them recognizing their time together was quickly dwindling. They'd opted to spend those final hours at Daniel's, whiling away the day on the tennis court, then with a sensual dip in the pool where the couple where they indulged themselves, kissing frequently, sharing sensual touches. Dinner had been a somber affair, with Laura shoving her plate away midway through the meal, her appetite having been chased away by the thought of their parting, which was now less than half a day away. Only a few bites later, his meal, too was cast aside, and in silence they'd agreed to retire to his room.
That evening, there was to be no true sleep, as they'd only dozed in between endless rounds of lovemaking, instigated far more by her than him, although he was a willing partner-in-crime. There would be more than enough time to sleep, at least for her, on the plane as it winged its way through the skies towards LA, and he was more than willing to withstand a bit of sleep deprivation if it meant soaking up every last moment they had left together. They'd watched dawn arrive together, standing at his bedroom window, wrapped together in a singular blanket, then had shared a shower where they'd indulged one final time.
He'd been unable to stand by and watch as she'd finished packing her bags, this parting somehow even more difficult than the first, when he'd voluntarily deported himself some weeks before. By the time he'd returned to their room with two cups of tea and a fresh plate a croissants, her bags had sat on the end of the bed, heralding the end of the days stolen. As she made one final check around his room to make certain she'd not forgotten anything, he'd carried her bags down to the car, stopping in Daniel's library along the way, to slip a little something into her carry-on.
They kept conversation light on the way to Heathrow, discussing Haven House, the Agency and their certainty Mildred would pump Laura for information about her trip unendingly upon her return, yet even as they did their utmost to appear undisturbed by the parting – for the other's sake, not so much their own – their hands belied their regrets, fingers tangling, caressing, then weaving together again. They wandered the small stores in the airport delaying her arrival at the departure gate until a feminine voice announced over the loudspeakers that boarding for first class passengers on her flight was now taking place. She made no mention of the hand now clasping hers almost painfully, as they walked to the gate, her ability to wrangle her own emotions hanging by a precarious thread.
Mere steps from the entrance to the jet way, Laura willingly turned into Remington's waiting arms.
She struggled to find something say. Something cheeky… playful… light and cheerful, and came up completely empty handed. He, the man with the gift of gab, was equally mute, his lips parting several times, only for not a sound to pass them. In the end, he settled for bending his head down and resting his forehead against hers.
"Laura."
His beloved voice, saying her name, not with its normal upbeat note, but instead, at the thought of their forced parting, was filled with the same feeling of heartache that she was overwhelmed by proved her undoing. Her face screwed up, and eyes filling with moisture left her blinking rapidly. The very real possibility of losing her composure in the middle of Heathrow for all to see was more than she could bear. Cupping the back of his neck with one hand, hand clenching his upper arm with the other, she pressed a kiss against his neck.
"I love you," she whispered.
Then she was gone and Remington was left holding nothing but air between his arms as pained blue eyes watched her back as she disappeared through the door.
Twenty minutes later he watched her plane taxi away, wish with all that he was it was him sitting in the seat beside her.