Harry felt a rush of adrenaline, causing him to stand up sharply. The blood was rushing in his ears, and he felt mildly like he might be sick. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he choked out words, barely giving any sound to his voice. "What do you mean, Ruth Pearce?"
"Our Ruth…your Ruth," Malcolm corrected. "That's why I set up that particular one. Wishful thinking, I suppose."
He did not say anything, but Harry could not help but agree. Wish fulfillment indeed. At the time, when they had been dancing around the idea of dating—had gone on one singular date, a rather lovely one to his mind—Harry had not gotten around to thinking of marriage. His thoughts had been much shorter term. Though not so short term as they ended up having.
Everything had happened so quickly. He'd wasted so much bloody time, working up the nerve to ask her out. He had been terrified that he would come on too strong, that he would scare her away, that she would turn him down, or, even worse, that she would think him a barmy old man and a disgusting boss abusing his power over a subordinate. But Harry should have known better, because Ruth knew him. That kind, gentle heart of hers found a way to care for him. She had wanted to know him and she had, possibly better than anyone else in Harry's life for years and years. And Harry wanted her to know him, wanted to tell her things, wanted to share his thoughts and feelings with her.
And then, once he'd figured out he wanted those things and made an attempt to let it happen, it was over. She'd run scared, as he'd feared she might. And before he could slowly but carefully lay to rest all of her worries and convince her that what they shared was worth exploring, she was gone. In the whirlwind of Cotterdam and trying to fix everything and trying to keep out of Mace's clutches, Harry's heart had gone into overdrive. He realized that what he felt for Ruth, the way he admired her and trusted her and craved her, was in fact love. Love the likes of which he'd not ever known. When he had loved his wife, he had been young and optimistic. Love like that cannot survive in the shadows where Harry Pearce resided. But with Ruth, it was different. She was a ray of light in those shadows. And she stood tall and held his hand through the darkness. He loved her.
He'd tried to tell her he loved her, of course, but she hadn't let him. Leave it as something wonderful that was never said. Those words haunted him. Deep in the recesses of his mind, he could hear the echo of her voice in the wind on the docks on that day. He could still feel the press of her cold lips against his and the way she repeated it for a second and third time as she whispered, "Let me go." And he had let her go. He'd let her go and had suffered without her every day since.
During those days together on the Grid, Harry had not thought far enough ahead to ever imagine that he and Ruth might end up married. But after she left, when he was left with those memories to torment him during sleepless nights, he tried to think of what it might have been like if they'd been allowed a chance to be together. And yes, he had fantasized that he would marry her. Make her Mrs. Pearce. Or rather, Lady Pearce now.
Malcolm allowed Harry the kindness of his shock, to process what he'd just told his friend. But for the sake of time, he continued, telling Harry, "She's on a plane as we speak. The passport she's traveling with is Romanian. The flight she's on took off from Bucharest about half an hour ago."
"Where's she going?" Harry asked, knowing that there might be a slim chance that he could find her, that he could get her back. If only he knew where she would be, perhaps he could get there quicker, could find her at the airport.
The smallest hint of a smile crossed Malcolm's lips as he answered, "Paris."