"What do we do now, Harry?" she asked him softly.
It was a question she desperately wished she did not have to ask; Ruth would have given anything, in that moment, to remain right where she was, nestled in Harry's embrace, to spend the night wrapped in his arms and wake in the morning to the sight of his face. She would have given anything to leave that room in the morning and set off with him, alone, to see the world, to turn their backs on Bradford and London both and create new lives for themselves, so far removed from the old ones. Ruth had left her name behind twice now, had taken on the mantle of another woman's life, and she would gladly do so again, so long as she had Harry's hand to hold.
For all that she wanted it, however, she knew such freedom was not in the cards for them. Despite the promises he'd made her, Ruth knew that Harry could never simply walk away from Thames House. He would need time, time to find a suitable replacement for himself, to tie up his loose ends, to make nice with the politicians and ensure that wherever they went next the job would not follow him. And much as she longed to shed her skin and start afresh Ruth knew that when the sun rose she would find her own responsibilities too pressing for her to simply walk away from them; she did not know what would become of her students should their professor simply vanish, and she felt she owed it to them to at least see out the term.
That wouldn't be so bad, she thought as she rested with her head pillowed on Harry's chest, his hands smoothing up and down the bare skin of her back; they could wait until the end of term. That would be long enough for both of them to get their affairs in order, to make plans for where they would go, what they would do, when at last the time was right for them.
But as ever her mind was running away with her; she had asked a question, and after a moment's silence, Harry chose to answer it.
"Much as I might like to," he said slowly, "I don't think we can stay here."
Ruth hummed, but closed her eyes against the sting of those words. She knew it was true, that Paul and Rebecca would be furious enough as it was; to linger overlong would be to invite worry, perhaps even fear, and given Rebecca's connections in the Home Office the last thing Ruth and Harry needed was to become the subject of a manhunt.
"We need to tell them, Ruth, and then in the morning we need to go home. But after that…"
After that, Ruth told herself, we can have the life we always dreamed of.
The prospect of the next few hours was unpleasant, to say the least. It would not be so very difficult to fob Paul off, to tell him that she had gone for a walk to clear her head and then change her travel details the moment the sun rose. She could be back in Bradford the following evening, could neatly cut him from her life, but having finally told the truth to herself and to Harry she could not find it in her heart to lie again. It would hurt, but she owed him the truth. He was a good man, Paul; it wasn't his fault that he wasn't the right one.
"I don't want to face him," she breathed into the quiet. "I don't want to spend another night apart from you." In truth it turned her stomach to even consider spending the night with Paul lying beside her.
She felt rather small, rather pathetic as she spoke those words, but she could not deny the truth of them. The joy, the relief, the hope that Harry brought to her, the comfort she found in his arms; it was a pleasure Ruth had denied herself too long. There was such beauty in this, in lying still and safe with a man she adored, a man who knew her heart, her history better than any other, and for so long Ruth's life had been devoid of such splendor. Bradford had been dreary and dark to her mind, her last few months in London doubly so, and Harry's love had burst forth like a glorious sunrise over a calm sea, blinding and brilliant. She did not want to consign herself to the darkness once again, not even for one night.
"I don't want you to," Harry answered her. "The thought of-" he caught himself before he said it, before he breathed life into his own jealousy, but Ruth knew him so well, and she did not need to hear the words to know what he meant. She felt much the same; the thought of another woman lying in bed beside Harry, presuming to claim that which belonged to Ruth so unreservedly, was more than distasteful; it felt almost blasphemous. Though Ruth did not know her, though she knew such thoughts were unkind, she could not help but feel a bit of contempt for Rebecca, Rebecca who did not seem to understand or condone Harry's dedication to his chosen profession, who wanted him to be someone he was not, who thought, even for a moment, that he was meant to share her bed. Oh, Harry had sworn to leave his post for Ruth's sake, but he had done so of his own volition, for she would never have dreamed of making such a request. During the tempestuous months of their earlier affair he had been dragged out of bed more times than Ruth could count by the ringing of his mobile, and she had never once complained, for she understood what it meant, to sit in his chair. She understood the sacrifices he had made, and though she did not know Rebecca personally the one interaction she had overheard had been sufficient for Ruth to draw a somewhat unfavorable conclusion about the woman's disposition.
"We have this room for the night," she said slowly, hardly daring to believe her boldness in suggesting such a thing and yet speaking the words anyway, because she had to, because she wanted to, because she could not bear to be parted from him. "Perhaps we could…"
Her voice trailed off but Harry picked up the thread at once, and though she could not see him Ruth fancied she could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke.
"We could gather our things and come back here, together?" he concluded.
"What do you think?"
As she waited for his answer Ruth's fingertips danced over the plane of his chest, drifting through the wispy whorls of hair she found there, thinking only how she loved this man, how she could not believe she had spent the last two years without him, how wonderful it was to think that soon she would never be without him again.
Gently Harry leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
"I think that's a fine idea," he said.
They took their time about it, jostling at the sink and taking turns for the loo, smiling softly, shyly at one another as they slipped back into their clothes. The keycard sat heavy in Harry's pocket as they walked from the hotel hand-in-hand; they had agreed to speak to their respective partners, gather their things, and meet in the hotel bar before making the trek back to the place that had become their haven, that un-looked-for sanctuary that had helped them to knit their hearts back together. As they walked along the pavement they were both rather quiet, thinking about what came next. Harry was grateful for the silence, for the beautiful sights of the city around them, for Ruth's tender understanding. She was so unlike Rebecca, who filled every moment with idle chatter; he had said once that Ruth understood the need for quiet, and she showed that intuition as they walked along now. Her hand was small and soft and warm, wrapped inside his own, and that gentle touch reassured him more than any words could ever hope to do.
Ever the spook Harry was gathering his own thoughts, trying to form a plan of attack. He wanted the ending of his relationship with Rebecca to be brief, had watched as Ruth entered his mobile number into her own phone and promised her it would take him no more than an hour to settle the matter and pack his bag. Even an hour seemed to him to be a rather generous allotment of time, but he would rather surprise Ruth by being early than worry her by being late.
But what to say? How to explain all this to Rebecca, a woman who while overly fond of the sound of her own voice was not without her own good qualities to recommend her, who had at times been good company, who had shared his bed for months? How to explain any of this to a woman who did not even know of Ruth's existence, who could not even begin to comprehend what he and Ruth had been through together, what they meant to one another?
It was tempting to simply lie to her, to tell her that work had called him away, but somehow he didn't think Ruth would approve of such duplicity, and as ever Ruth's good opinion of him mattered more than his own desire to expedite what was likely to be a rather painful, and perhaps even somewhat dramatic conversation. He would need to handle the situation with care, and he remained determined to keep Ruth's name out of it. It wouldn't do, to have Rebecca casting blame or aspersions upon Ruth, who was to his mind above reproach. His Ruth was the best of women and he would hear no ill words about her, would not dare do anything that might tarnish her reputation, even in the mind of someone as relatively inconsequential as Rebecca.
All too soon their steps led them back to their original hotel. They passed through the lobby and by the entrance to the restaurant, Ruth's hand tightening her grip on him ever so slightly, but mercifully there was no sign of either Rebecca or Ruth's man, and they entered the lift without any complications. The moment the shiny silver doors closed Ruth leaned against him, turned her face into his shoulder and sighed.
"This is going to be dreadful," she told him in a quiet voice.
Harry turned and wrapped his arms around her without a thought for the circumstances; they were alone in the lift and Ruth loved him, and he wanted more than anything to soothe her worried heart.
"It will be all right," he promised her. "It won't be pleasant, but at the end of it, we'll be together. And that's all that matters now."
Ruth leaned back against his arms, tilted her head so that she could gaze up at his face.
"I'm so tired," she told him, and in those words he understood the full scope of her meaning, that she was not simply in need of sleep but tired of the running, the lies, tired of their separation, tired of the grief, just as he was. "All I want is you."
There was nothing else for it in that moment but to kiss her, and so he did, bowed his head and brushed his lips against her own, wanting to offer her every reassurance, hoping that she could feel in the heat of his kiss the depth of his regard for her, his need for her, the joy that filled him at the thought of a future with her. It was all he had ever wanted, a lifetime of Ruth, and he could hardly believe his luck, that such a thing might finally come to pass.
She had told him once, however, that timing was everything, and it would seem he had not learned that lesson for he had no sooner sunk into her kiss than the lift doors opened on their floor. In that moment he was far too distracted by the warmth, the glory of Ruth to notice something as mundane as the silent sliding of the doors, and was only brought back to his senses by the sudden sound of a sharp voice from the corridor.
"Rachel?" Paul asked incredulously.
"Oh, shit," Ruth swore, pulling out of the kiss at once, though her hand remained fisted in the material of Harry's shirt, clinging to him for dear life as they came face to face with their baffled lovers.
"Bugger," Harry agreed morosely.