With a gasp Ruth pulled back, breathless and reckless and terrified. He smelled the same, felt the same, tasted the same, overwhelmed her in exactly the same way he had done all those years before, when they were still mostly whole, entirely together, facing the world side-by-side. A piece of her soul ached for him, the warmth of his arms, the steady reassurance of his presence, the comfort she found while he held her, this man who loved her, this man she loved. But only a piece, for the rest of her was afraid, and angry, and confused, and lost, all at once. Harry had lied to her, but he had done it to protect her. Harry had torn them asunder, but he had also rather bluntly pointed out that he was not the only one to blame for what had become of them. There was a kind man and a comfortable life waiting for her back at the hotel, but in front her there stood a shadow, a ghost who owned her heart, and had done for many a long year. She could not find her way through the mess, had no notion of how they could move forward from here, but one thing she knew for certain; she could not stand here kissing Harry, no matter how enticing that prospect might be, while she still had questions, while they both still had entanglements to unravel, together or apart.
"Ruth," he said softly, and the sound of her name falling from his lips sent a shiver down her spine. He saw it, the way her body trembled, and he reached for her at once, enveloping one of her small hands in both of his, his skin worn and warm and gentle against her own.
"You're cold," he said.
She wasn't, not really; there was a chill in the crisp spring air but she was wearing his heavy jumper and the thrum of her blood in her veins kept her warm enough.
"I'm fine," she answered him, and the soft look he gave her, not quite a smile and yet close enough for her to know that it was an expression born of his fondness for her, told her that he did not believe her for a moment.
"You would be warmer at the hotel," he pointed out, but something deep inside Ruth's heart recoiled at the very thought of going back there, where Harry's woman was waiting in the restaurant - if indeed she had not already ventured up to their room and found him missing, if she was not at that very moment going mad with worry over him.
"No," she said, somewhat more abruptly than she meant to. "I'm fine. But I'm sure Rebecca is looking for you. I'm surprised she hasn't rung your mobile yet."
They'd been gone a while, now, had spoken for a time in his room before they ventured off on foot, before they found their way to this bridge where they now lingered, another nameless pair of lovers on a Parisian boulevard. The ten minutes Harry had promised his lover had long since expired, and Ruth knew now they were on borrowed time.
"I left my mobile in the room," Harry answered, and though she cursed herself for it, Ruth nonetheless fell just that little bit more in love with him as he spoke those words. The great Sir Harry Pearce never left his mobile behind, never turned it off, was never beyond the reach of the realm he had served well and faithfully for more than thirty years now, but he had done this thing for her sake, so that they might speak to one another, properly, without interruption. Ruth recognized the gesture for what it was at once, and the very thought that he could still care for her so deeply after all this time sent a rush of heating flooding over her.
"Come with me," he said, and before she could protest he was moving, his fingers lacing with hers, drawing her along beside him. For all that she felt herself untethered, tossed about on a sea of uncertainty, it seemed that Harry had a plan, and she was grateful that at least one of them knew what they were doing.
"This doesn't change anything, Harry," she murmured as they walked, and his pace slowed when he realized their conversation was not yet finished. "You're still you. You still have the job to worry about. Rebecca is still waiting for you. And I'm…"
"You're what, Ruth?" he prompted her when the words failed her. Though he had matched the cadence of his steps to hers still he led them both along the pavement, undeterred as he sought to carry out his mission, whatever that might have been.
Yes, Ruth, what are you?
She was so many things she could hardly give them names. She was afraid of falling back into old patterns, afraid that her declaration of love might have convinced Harry that she was prepared to return to the grim reality of her life back in London, to face the death and the chaos once again. She was angry, to learn that Harry had lied to her and her agony had been for naught, angry that he seemed so sure of himself when she felt so lost. She was comfortable with her life in Bradford, and there was a comfortable man dining alone somewhere in the city who thought that she belonged to him.
"I won't go back to Thames House, Harry," she said at last.
"Did I ask you to?"
She might have thought his question flippant, if she had not caught sight of his expression in the glow of a passing street lamp. His brow was furrowed, his lips set in that adorable little pout of his, the lines of his face speaking to a sort of confusion, and she realized her thoughts had raced ahead of the conversation as they so often did.
"I do love you, Harry, but that doesn't negate everything that's happened between us."
He hummed, and turned to the side, pulling Ruth toward a nondescript building off to their right. And all at once she realized where it was he had been leading them, what it was he intended.
"Oh, Harry, no," she sighed, stopping in her tracks right in front of the small hotel. It was not the one they'd booked for the weekend; by all appearances, it lacked the airs and graces of their accommodations, but she could see Harry's plan written all over his face.
"I'm tired, Ruth," he said. "It's cold, and it's dark, and I don't want to have this conversation on a street corner. Come inside. Let's find a place to sit down, at least."
She should have left. She knew she should have left, should have found the wherewithal to turn away from him and whatever it was he meant to ask of her, all the salacious possibilities inherent in their shacking up in a hotel room together, if only for an hour or two. The very prospect of walking through those doors, Ruth so obviously attired in Harry's jumper, neither of them carrying a bag, neither of them intending to stay the night, facing the knowing stare of the desk clerk turned her stomach, but this was Harry. Harry, asking for a few minutes of her time, wanting to talk to her, wanting to stay by her side, and though common sense dictated that she leave, she found herself nodding dumbly, following where he led. Which, she supposed, she had been doing for more than a decade now, following him as they danced this strange and uncertain dance, Ruth knowing none of the steps and yet trusting that Harry would not lead her astray.
Six years earlier…
Ruth's hands were trembling, as she stood in the corridor facing Harry's door. The steady thump of the base was still coming from the suite where the Italian Trade Minister was entertaining his guests. It had only been perhaps half an hour since Harry had confronted her in that corridor, prowled towards her with hungry eyes and parted lips, when it had taken every ounce of self-restraint she possessed to stick to her principles and turn away from him, no matter how handsome he was, no matter how she longed to bury her face in the crook of his neck. She had found the strength, however, had slipped back into her own room and left him standing there alone, just as her conscience dictated.
So why, then, was she here now? Loitering about outside his door where the cameras might catch sight of her, seriously considering what might have been the single most reckless undertaking she had ever in her life attempted? Whatever they were it could not be; Ruth could not abide people whispering that she had only achieved her position through sleeping with her boss, could not bear to be the reason people snickered about Harry behind his back, could not stand the thought that anyone might look at her and know at once the secrets of her heart. No matter how electric they were together, that night he'd walked her to her door and she had invited him inside in an unsteady voice, that night he'd wrapped her in his arms and shaken the very foundation of her world. Harry was a man of the world, brave and strong, a man who'd had his fair share of lovers, who did not hesitate before taking another, even if his infatuation was not meant to last. Their work was more important, that's what she'd told herself; whatever Harry felt for her was surely a passing fancy, and she could not let him sacrifice his reputation for a good shag.
But what about what me?
That was the truth of it, she supposed, the reason why she'd left her mobile in her room so that Malcolm and the other techies keeping watch over Havensworth would have no idea where she had gone. She was standing outside Harry's door in the early hours of the morning because no matter how she tried to convince herself that Harry could not possibly feel so very deeply for her she could not shake the sure and certain truth that she loved him.
Ruth's heart was a fragile thing, and she did not give it away lightly. There had been one man, a trader called Anthony - the big swinging dick, she'd called him once, and she smiled sadly to think of Danny, even in this moment - whom she thought she loved, whom she had imagined herself spending her life with, but he had thrown her over for a prettier girl, and she had spent months trying to put herself back together. He was the only one, though, the only one who had tempted her, who had swayed her, truly, beyond a few lackluster nights. The only one, until Harry.
Harry who had swept her away, with his soft eyes and his gentle hands and his kind words. Harry who was so unlike anyone she'd ever known, dangerous and comforting all at once. From the moment they met she'd found herself eager for his approval, but over time her feelings had changed, deepened. She looked forward to every moment she got to spend with him, felt a thrill each time she lifted her head and found him looking at her with heat and want shining in every line of his face. The dinner they'd shared had sparked something wild and yearning within her, a yearning that was not sated after just one night in his arms. She cared for him, respected him, yes, but she wanted him, too.
And Ruth was tired of not getting what she wanted.
Maybe it was madness, to seek him out in such an environment. Maybe it was foolish, to think that he had fallen half so hard for her as she had for him. Maybe the whispers would be her undoing, maybe tomorrow she would regret this with every fiber of her being, but it seemed to Ruth that what she would regret more was never trying at all.
Drawing in a deep breath, then, she lifted her hand, and knocked twice upon his door.