6. February 2013 – 2 – Norfolk/London – Aftermath
As was his habit Harry awoke in the very early morning hours. Normally he would stare sightlessly at the ceiling, reliving the horrors of the recent past until he could stand it no more and would get up to prowl from room to room until dawn broke, giving him a reason to go to work, but this time the warmth of the body curled against his diverted his mind elsewhere, towards the concept that, perhaps, he might be getting another, totally undeserved chance. The events of the previous evening had been totally unplanned: when he had gone to find her it was solely because he had been concerned about her unusually remote demeanour during the dinner and her equally out of character disappearance afterwards while he was temporarily way-laid. Certainly nothing like what had unfolded had occurred to him as something that was likely to happen, due in no small part to never having consciously admitted to himself that he had found her attractive, from that first week she had arrived and being quite serious in his intentions to not get involved with anyone ever again. His sub-conscious had clearly had other plans, though.
The moon was casting bright, oblique shadows through the open curtains of the window, sliding its gilded light across the polished glass of a large, artfully framed photographic print to reflect on his companion as he allowed himself to finally remember that dark, unhappy night after she had left in November. When he had finally hauled himself home it was late and he had gone, for the first time in months, straight to the whiskey bottle. By midnight, after two hours of failing to self-medicate the pain, the bottle was almost empty and he was barely conscious, his mind wandering wherever it wished, unfettered by any sober constraints.
Initially, habitually, it had wandered to Ruth and what might have been but, as time wore on, it had headed in an entirely different direction: to the airport and how bereft he had been as Hope had disappeared inside. Then the sensation of her hands on his face, followed by how she had felt in his arms and the touch of her lips on his cheek. The treacherous sub-conscious had then been considering how she would feel and taste if he kissed her, properly, when the clock had started gently chiming midnight and his consciousness suddenly re-exerted control, horrified and guilt-stricken at what he had been thinking. He had resiled the thought at the time and immediately repressed it, successfully managing until now to forget it. Well, now he knew how she tasted and what it felt like to hold her, naked, in his arms and in his bed and the answer to both was glorious and absolutely right.
Gazing at her sleeping quietly next to him in the glimmering light he marvelled at how easy, beautiful and natural last night had been. Recognition; request; consent, leading to the sort of almost devout communion between the two of them that he had rarely achieved before – really only in the early days with Jane, before he caused that marriage to go wing-over into an irretrievable spin into the ground. Was it because they really were two sides of that one coin that it had all been so simple and so perfect? Or that having had his soul rent so violently asunder in those few weeks in Spring two years before meant that he would never again be entirely able to hide behind his formerly impregnable psychological walls, leaving him a little more vulnerable, a little more open and empathic than he had ever been? Perhaps. Probably both.
All he knew was that the words had emerged, unbidden and before he could bite them back; her response, instantaneous and certain, had lifted his heart for the first time since that dark and terrible day on the river and made him realise that he was still alive after all – certainly, the act of giving and receiving loving pleasure had proven that. He had shed one or two quiet tears immediately afterwards, mostly, he now realised, of relief that he was still capable of feeling something other than numbness or suffering for himself and was apparently able to provide something similar for another bruised soul.
What would Ruth have thought? She probably would have been cheering him on, if he was honest. She had had her small piece of uncomplicated happiness when she was in Cyprus and he knew, in his battered heart, that irrespective of the disaster that their final couple of years had been she would not begrudge him something similar now that she wasn't here to provide it herself. He just hadn't been able to confront the prospect before now (witness the reaction to that one moment of drunken wondering about Hope), the pain had become his familiar instead, constant, known, unchanging, almost safe. He wouldn't make any plans right now – that smacked too much of counting unhatched chickens – but maybe Hope's name had been a harbinger for the future. Maybe here was one last chance, if she wanted it and he wasn't misreading the situation yet again, for him to redeem himself on the most personal level, without stuffing up or hurting anyone, including himself, this time. Wrapping himself around her, he gently kissed the back of her neck and, content, drifted back to sleep.
Oblivious to her bed companion's earlier wakeful musing Hope woke a couple of hours later. Harry was sleeping peacefully, one arm flung across her waist and, in sleep, looking more like the younger man she remembered from West Berlin, London and Bangkok as she unknowingly began to echo his own actions in contemplating the night before. Although she had known since Germany in the late eighties that he was a bit of a dish he had, if she was honest, never quite been to her taste, being a tad too pretty for her and in any case she tended to prefer brunettes to blonds. However, she had certainly liked the man, in the flesh at the time and by way of their intermittent, wickedly funny email correspondence since. After the events of East Timor in 1999 she, too, had developed no intention of ever getting seriously involved with anyone again, either inside or outside the intelligence community – too hard on either front, for different reasons – and by the end of her previous visit she had been fairly certain he was of the same mind. Pain of that sort was somewhere neither of them wanted to risk going to again, so the likelihood of events such as last night had never even registered.
That wasn't entirely the truth. The faintest of inklings had occurred after his phone call at Christmas, when she had been driving up to Sydney and found herself considering the cause of her quiet happiness after the conversation. Part of that had included a blunt assessment of whether she would actually consider something more, in the unlikely even it was offered, but there was also the slight issue of the state of mind he was currently in. Well aware of his reputation as the ultimate hard man, his armour impenetrable after so many years, she had been genuinely shocked to find him so completely vulnerable when she had first arrived in London earlier in the year. The whole mess of two years before (John Bateman, Albany, the enquiry, Max Witt, the Gavriks, Tariq, Jim Coaver, Ruth), piled one atop the other over the course of a very few months, had clearly shattered the armour into irretrievable pieces and, although he appeared to have pulled himself back together, it had been blindingly clear during the course of that first day that his equanimity was little more than a veneer as thin as ricepaper: strong enough most of the time but only requiring the tiniest of rips to destroy its integrity. Having been there herself, her heart had broken for him but the thought of getting involved with him, in that state or any other, just hadn't entered her head. A personal relationship was probably the last thing that either of them wanted or needed at that point. Dismissing it as just close friendship – largely true – she hadn't thought about it again until last Sunday when her heart had startled her by giving a bit of a lurch which wasn't entirely due to surprise when he had joined her. Then, completely without warning, last night. She didn't think either of them had started it; the move had been mutual, as had been the response. And not only had it been amazing, it had also felt utterly right.
She gazed at him, an unfamiliar feeling of tenderness flickering to life. As he had said last night, there was no way of knowing where this was likely to take them but, she thought, even if it ended up being a one-off night it would have been worth it. One thing she could guarantee was that they had both needed the physical contact. If it became more than that, all the better. Wynne, she knew, would have had a black appreciation of the fact that something new and wonderful had possibly started for her on that day of all days. In a momentary flight of whimsy she could just about see him and Ruth sitting comfortably on a cloud up there somewhere and plotting how to throw their relicts together...
Deciding she was overthinking it all she clasped the hand that was resting on her belly in her own and let her cheek rest against the top of his head. It was easier all round to not wonder where they might end up and to have neither plans nor expectations on that front. All she would really aim for in the present moment was to maintain, in the longer term, their very genuine friendship.
It wasn't long before he stirred, pulling her closer until she was pressed against his chest before kissing her on the forehead and opening his eyes. Hazel irises met green and there were smiles in both.
"Hello," he said, softly.
"Hello," she answered, equally as softly. Another mutual movement brought their lips together for a gentle morning kiss that was followed by another and another. He couldn't believe how good she felt in his arms and didn't want to stop kissing her; she couldn't believe how right it felt to be in his arms and didn't want to stop kissing him. Eventually his lips left hers and trailed fire across her cheekbone to her ear where he murmured,
"Thank you. For last night. And now. And whatever is to come." So it wasn't a one-night stand then. She felt somewhat cheered by the thought but decided now wasn't the time for serious discussion so answered flippantly but with a slow smile,
"No, sweet, thank you. For the same. It's been a long time between drinks..." he knew exactly what she meant by that and she saw the wry acknowledgement register in those dark eyes, interestingly flecked with green and gold at this close range, as she finished her sentence "...so any time you want a repeat performance, feel free!"
He kissed her, gently, then gazed into her eyes and, joy of joys, there was a spark of mischief lurking in his own amber-dark depths. Picking up her flippancy he quirked an eyebrow and asked innocently,
"Any time?"
"Mmm." She smiled back before adding a clarification. "Well, within reason. Doing this in the middle of your key-note address this morning, for example, might be a bit much."
His mournful response made her laugh.
"Oh, I don't know, it might stop some of the audience from going to sleep..."
Diversion working, they giggled over the inappropriate images that popped into their minds before the giggling turned back into kissing which then led to its natural conclusion, once more as though it was the most natural, easy and uncomplicated thing in the world and deeply satisfying for both of them. Eventually the duties of the day forced them, extremely reluctantly, up and about, a quick coffee having to substitute for food as his key-note address was up first. She knew he was dreading it (not nervous, just hated giving public speeches) but would never have guessed from the smooth, polished performance. Quite the raconteur, our Harry, she thought, as she watched him get the audience eating out of the palm of his hand within the first couple of minutes. The tone was light, the subject matter heavy and he handled it all brilliantly, far beyond what she had ever been able to achieve in a similar situation. A longer-than-normal question time had been allowed for afterwards and every minute was needed; even after that he was getting bailed up every few steps as he tried to get back to her during the mid-morning break, only achieving that feat a few minutes before the next session was due to start.
She herself had just escaped the metaphorical clutches of one of the Cousins from across the Pond when she glanced up to see him, finally free of obstructions, approaching across the floor. One of the sunniest smiles she had ever seen greeted her as she stated the obvious,
"You look happy."
A grimace appeared, briefly relacing the smile. "I'm glad it's over."
She nodded in understanding, held out her hands and said, as he took them and kissed both,
"It went well. Made a few people think, judging by the comments I've been hearing."
"Good, that was the point of it!" He let her hands go and placed his own on her waist, drawing her to him for another kiss, full on the mouth this time and not even remotely demure. She responded in kind; a couple of delegates who had been about to approach backed off, hastily; when the couple parted she murmured, one hand still in his soft caramel curls and lips barely lifting from his,
"Well, that was nice."
"I hope so!" He kissed her again, briefly. "You don't mind, then?"
She stopped kissing him long enough to ask, a slight frown on her forehead,
"Mind what?"
"Others knowing. We're in public, after all."
She gave a low and rather dirty chuckle and responded, punctuating her words with more kisses,
"Harry, I've never given a fat rat's arse about what other people think and I'm not about to start now!"
Was that relief that just flashed through his eyes? she thought. Odd...
It was relief. After so many years of nursing Ruth's insecurities about anyone finding out about them, despite there being very little for anyone to actually discover due to her vacillating affections, and later fielding her barely-repressed anger at the world, taken out on him, he was finding Hope's breezy, calm acceptance of everything he was (and wasn't) and her enthusiasm for and open enjoyment of the sudden, unexpected physical turn their relationship had taken a massive relief. Everything straight-forward, no issues to worry about treading on. Maybe this was what it was supposed to be like. Pushing the thought away as unworthy, he returned his concentration to the woman in his arms now, kissing her again just as the bell for the start of the next session rang.
"Damn.."
She laughed and let him go.
"I know but maybe it's just as well otherwise I suspect we would be heading to somewhere entirely different than the conference room in a minute!"
He sighed.
"I wish. I have to have another coffee before we go in, though..."
The rest of the day dragged: interesting enough but they both had their minds elsewhere. Finally the day finished, finally the sundowners were over and finally they could quietly and unobtrusively escape upstairs. It was her room this time (she got the key out first), where shoes were kicked off, jackets thrown on chairs and kissing became the order of the day again. Eventually lifting her lips from his she asked,
"What are we doing tonight?" A lazy half-smile greeted her, as did a very obvious invitation in the depths of his eyes. Sighing, she went on, "I meant for dinner."
He nibbled her earlobe and responded reasonably,
"That can be dinner."
"No, you reprobate, that's dessert!"
"Oh." He appeared to consider the options. "Whatever you want. There's always room service. Or the pub."
"Good, nothing fancy then. In which case," she kissed him soundly before stepping back, "I'm going to get this bloody makeup off. I won't be long so make yourself comfortable. The scotch is all yours if you want it."
She disappeared into the bathroom and they continued talking in a desultory manner while he did indeed make himself comfortable and let his mind roam happily over the events of the last day while she did much the same. When she reappeared, devoid of makeup and tights, he was sprawled on the bed, propped up by pillows, with his tie gone to join his jacket and his shirt half un-buttoned, nursing a glass of whiskey while staring pensively out the window. He did dishevelled rather well, she thought; he turned to smile at her as she stepped into the bedroom, put the drink on the bedside table and, echoing her movement from the morning, held out a hand. Smiling back, she walked over and sat next to him, taking the proferred hand and kissing it.
"Everything alright?"
He nodded.
"Mmm. Just pondering how quickly and completely life can change, for the better for once. Twenty four hours ago all I was thinking about was how soon we would be able to decently skip out after dinner and head for a quiet drink. That we would end up instead making rather beautiful love wasn't even on the radar."
"I know. It almost makes you wonder if there really are some old crones sitting on high and that they've finally decided to go easy on both of us. Whatever the case, I'm not going to question any of it, just enjoy it."
Silently agreeing with everything she said, he reached his free hand out to touch her cheek; half-closing her eyes, she leaned into his touch as he gently cupped her face. She loved his hands, she decided: large, capable, strong and yet surprisingly tender at times like this and incredibly arousing at others, as she had discovered last night. He traced the shape of her lips with a finger before lightly continuing a line down her throat to her chest; meeting the buttons on her blouse he began to undo them, working down until they were all undone and he could pull the tails of her shirt out of the waistband of her skirt. She opened her eyes and gazed at him, smoky with desire.
"I thought we were going out for dinner?"
"We are," he replied, voice deep and just slightly uneven. "But I need some skin against skin time first."
"Ah..."
She leaned over him and, working swiftly, undid the rest of his buttons and pulled his shirt loose as well. Sighing in pleasure, he pulled her onto his chest, arms wrapped firmly around her: he had meant what he had said about needing the therapeutic effects of bare skin contact and could feel himself becoming more peaceful as her warmth melded with his. She sighed as well and relaxed into the strength of his embrace, enjoying the long-unfamiliar sensation of being held by a man, and that's where they stayed for several long, silent, enjoyable minutes, until she felt his hands moving down her back and over her behind, where they started to tug her skirt up to her hips. Lifting her head she looked at him and saw the mischief lurking in the depths of his eyes; running her fingers through his curls she dipped her face to his and kissed him once, then again. It didn't stop the exploratory hands, though; lifting her mouth from his she said, slowly, clearly and patiently,
"Harry, my love, if you still want us to go out for dinner you had really better get your hands out of my underwear. Now!" He laughed, low and sexy, and continued to do exactly what he had been doing. Deciding to get her own back she started toying with his zip. "Oh well, if you're going to be like that..."
As she suspected, once the boot was on the other foot (so to speak) it didn't take long for him to concede defeat before it was too late. Wrapping both arms around her waist and rolling her over onto her back, pinned to the bed, he announced cheerfully,
"Patience, madam! I want to leave this until later so I can go to sleep with you in my arms again."
Having been about to retaliate with a few underhanded moves of her own, instead she softened at his words and the tender expression in his eyes. Smiling, she kissed him and ran her hands down his back to rest on his rear.
"Alright, you cheeky bastard. I'll buy that." Suddenly slapping him on the behind she added, "But you'd still better get off me, otherwise we'll never get out of here!"
Dinner was at another pub a couple of towns away; it was getting late by the time they got back but they hardly noticed the time, heading straight back to her room where they were in each other's arms as soon as the door was closed, kissing deeply as they stumbled towards the bed. Little was said until some time later when she stretched her hips out and flopped onto her back, reaching for his hand as she announced formally,
"Congratulations, Sir Harry, you've got the job."
Still breathing heavily he nonetheless laughed and asked,
"What job?"
"Sex slave. If you want it, it's all yours, you passed the interview with flying colours!"
He turned his head to look at her, still laughing.
"Oh, I want it alright! As long as you can make allowances for the slave no longer being as young as he was and don't expect this performance every day..."
Propping herself on her elbow, she gently stroked his face, understanding perfectly what he was saying.
"Don't worry, the mistress is no spring chicken either and in any case infinitely prefers quality over quantity."
Overwhelmed by emotion he didn't trust himself to say any more, for fear that he would blurt out what he didn't even want to admit to himself yet. Instead, he kissed her again before wrapping her in his arms,
"And now for the other pleasure of sleeping with you in my arms..."
For the first time in almost two years, he didn't wake in the early-morning dark.
The next day, the second-last of the congress, was almost a replica of the previous, minus the necessity of delivering a speech and with the main difference being that in the weather: around lunch time a change came through and it started snowing. Hope wasn't impressed – she wasn't fond of cold, let alone snow – and it wrecked their plans of disappearing for the last evening so, at the end of the day, they retired to her room again (his excuse being, truthfully, that her bed was more comfortable than his and didn't squeak...) with a bottle of wine and settled themselves comfortably on the couch. The quiet small-talk was replaced by longer silences as they relaxed, gazing out the window into the snow falling gently in the fast-fading light. Eventually the bottle was empty, as were their glasses; putting his down he drew her into his arms for a kiss before asking quietly,
"When are you heading back to London?"
Luxuriating in the contact (God, she loved his mouth!) she kissed him back.
"Saturday morning. The bosses decreed it probably wouldn't be safe to have us driving that distance after a long day so we're booked in here tomorrow night as well."
Barely lifting his lips from hers (God, he loved her lips and the way she used them!) he went on,
"Have you got somewhere to stay?"
"Mmm. I'm booked somewhere for the next week: I'd better check my email again. The boys are heading home on Sunday."
"I don't care about them. Only you." Releasing his hold a little, he sat back, took a deep breath to steady his nerves and said, "Come back to town with me tomorrow. We can cancel your booking for next week once we're there."
Outwardly, she maintained her normal stillness and calm as she contemplated him with those very green eyes. Inside, her heart raced as unexpected joy shot through her. Knowing what it had probably cost him to say it, she smiled and replied, carefully,
"Okay. As long as I won't be treading on any memories."
He gave a short, slightly bitter laugh.
"You won't be. If there's one place in London that does not hold any memories of Ruth it's my house."
Her expression didn't change but her immediate thought of What? How did that work? must have registered in her eyes because he sighed and pulled her back into his arms.
"I wasn't going to explain any of this yet but I've just realised that I owe it to both of us, and Ruth, to do so because one of the major problems she and I had was that neither of us were very good with saying what we meant. With saying anything, really. And I don't want that to happen with us." Absently kissing the top of her head he went on, "I loved that woman so much but Christ it was hard work. So many issues from her side and a bundle on mine as well..." He went on to explain, briefly, how things had been, her still acceptance making it surprisingly easy. To his even greater surprise, it was a massive relief to finally get it off his chest. He didn't dwell on it for too long; Hope accepted the story as it came although she had a hard time understanding Ruth but then she knew nothing about what might have happened in that woman's life to make her the way she was and certainly knew better than to judge as well as recognising that she was only hearing Harry's side – no doubt Ruth would have had a different view of the story and Hope was well aware that the actual truth would have been found somewhere between the two. She was just so sorry that it seemed to have caused this lovely man years of suffering before the final act in the drama almost destroyed him.
She stayed quiet once he finished, thinking for a moment, then looked up, kissed him tenderly and said, simply,
"Thank you. You didn't have to explain but I appreciate it. So in memory of Ruth we will continue to be forthright. Yes, I will be more than happy to accompany you back to London. You'd better know you'll be putting me up for three weeks, though, not one!"
He looked at her and a slow, sideways smile spread across that mouth she adored as he contemplated her extended presence in his life with absolute delight.
"How's that?"
"I hate coming this far for a short trip so, as I've got about a gazillion weeks of annual leave due, I'm taking a couple of them at the end of the work part of this trip, to have a break. And avoid the rest of summer at home – I may hate the cold but I hate being fried by the sun equally as much."
Everything was so easy with this woman. No wonder she was so relaxing to be around...
"All the better, then. I might even surprise everyone and take some of my own gazillion weeks of leave so we can do something or go somewhere together."
"Now you're talking!"
"Mmm, too much. I can think of things I'd rather do." Another long, soft kiss followed; just as she was settling in he abruptly sat up and continued, "Like order dinner. And some more wine!"
"Tease," she accused him, heart still racing. "You'll pay for that later."
"Oh, I do hope so!"
She was as good as her word, driving him until they collapsed in a sweating heap. Eventually, as they made themselves more comfortable, Harry asked innocently,
"I just want to clarify: that was my punishment for being a tease, was it?"
"Yup. Serves you right and I hope you suffered."
There was a silence for a second as he considered her remorseless tone.
"I think I had better tease on a regular basis, then."
The last day of the congress was mostly devoted to technological developments, with no major lectures. Interesting stuff but the day was dragging by the mid-morning break. They had managed to spend most of the morning together without interruption; at morning tea Harry went off to get them coffee while Hope finished getting some information off one of the technology providers. She had just finished that when one of her travelling companions bailed her up.
"Hope! Christ, you've been hard to get hold of this week."
"Hey, Ah-Teng. No I haven't, I've been here all the time. What's up?"
The younger man shook his head at her.
"I didn't say you hadn't been here, I said you've been hard to get hold of. You've been conspicuous by your absence after hours and even during the day you're impossible to get at because you're always with that bugger from MI5."
"You mean me?" Harry asked, appearing next to them, somehow balancing coffee and cake for two. "Hello, Ah-Teng. Your coffee, my darling." Handing over her refreshments he very deliberately kissed her; kissing him back, she replied,
"Thank you, sweet."
Ah-Teng had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.
"Yes, Harry, I meant you! Sorry, I didn't realise..." his voice tailed off under the steady gaze of two sets of slightly amused eyes. Once she decided he had squirmed enough Hope said,
"No reason why you should have. What were you after, anyway?"
"Just trying to find out when you wanted to head back tomorrow, that's all."
"Oh, just as well you found me then. I'm going back this afternoon, with Harry, so you two can set off whenever you want and I'll see you once I'm back home."
"Ahh. Okay."
She hitched an eyebrow at him.
"Don't look so surprised. It wouldn't be the first time the Australian security services had ended up in bed with MI5, just perhaps not as literally." Ah-Teng choked on his juice while Harry had to swallow his coffee very quickly before flashing her a brilliant smile. When he finished coughing her young colleague said,
"Alright, that was more information than I really needed so, on that note, I think I'm going to leave now. See you in Canberra and have a good holiday, although I guess you will now!"
They decided to sneak away in the early afternoon. It had stopped snowing over night and the roads were clear so the trip back to London only took a couple of hours, although the distance from the outskirts to his house took almost half that time again, due to the peak hour traffic. It was getting dark by the time they got there so she had no idea where they were, although he assured her they were in Pimlico, not far from Thames House. Far enough in morning traffic or on afternoons like this one, had been his wry addendum.
There was nothing to eat in the house so they went out for dinner, returning late and immediately retiring to the bedroom to test his bed.
It didn't squeak either.
The weekend passed all too quickly as they got further acquainted with each other away from work. The weather wasn't conducive to being outside so most of their time was spent indoors, at home or elsewhere, although mostly the former: she found his home to be surprisingly peaceful, a Georgian refuge full of light and air, decorated in subtle colours, comfortable furnishings and a tasteful collection of art, ceramics and glass that had probably been assembled over decades. It was also ridiculously neat and organised ("easy enough when you're the only one in it" had been his response) but she put that down, correctly, to his military background, something she had experienced before with Wynne. So she felt surprisingly at home very quickly.
He, in turn, was pleasantly surprised at how right it felt to have her there: unobtrusive, quiet, serene and full of love. He had recognised that on the Sunday morning, when he was in the kitchen putting the kettle on and she was in the sitting room with her nose in the newspaper: he realised the atmosphere of the house had changed subtly, no longer totally silent and a little chilly, he acknowledged it was because he knew she was there, a few feet away, but was amazed at how it suddenly felt warmer and more like a home than it ever had. He remembered Ilya's words on that first time he had visited for a drink: he had long accepted the truth in that part of what the other man had said at the time but now he suddenly realised that their positions had reversed: the Russian was the one who was living in a cold, lonely house (there had been no replacement for Elena – he hadn't said as much but was clearly unwilling to risk getting involved again – and Sasha would be in that high security clinic for a very long time yet), albeit a new one, having been unable to remain in what had been the family home, while his was now alive and almost cosy, in a quiet way.
Hope had smiled gently when he brought the tea tray in; sitting next to her, he removed her glasses, wrapped her in his arms and kissed her, tenderly; she dropped the paper and responded in kind, more than willing to accept any excuse offered to enjoy his mouth on hers.
"Hello, lover! Wasn't expecting that but it was lovely. Any particular reason?"
Still unwilling to admit it to himself yet that, at their advanced ages, he was well on the way to falling head over heels in love he responded with a simple,
"Because you're here. And I'm very glad of that," before capturing her lips with his again, leaving her starry-eyed. He was still finding it a little hard to believe that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and not just on the physical side, either – he had never had a problem with getting women to come back for more of that – she seemed to want him, all of him, just as he was, with all his inadequacies and limitations. Limitations that she didn't seem to see or, if she did, didn't care about, and such a sunny acceptance of all that he was made him happier than he had almost ever been.
Unbidden, Ruth's words, spoken after the disastrous marriage proposal, floated to the surface of his mind: "...but now, after the choices you've—I can't." They had hurt him, badly, those words, wounded him to the core in fact, the judgement passed on him and his work at that exact time making him feel like something on the bottom of her shoe. She had tried to mitigate it later, on the rooftop "—things we've seen together, things we've done—" but the damage had been done and they had never really recovered because he had realised then that she would never be able to accept the dark side of their world the way he did, that she saw his acceptance and active use of it as something that was an ineradicable fault in him, something she could never fully get over, never accept, never be truly comfortable with. But that was then, in the pre-Estuary world of hopeless yearning; today was a different, more open, accepting and understanding world. Breathing "I could kiss you all day," he pulled her into his embrace again.
One of the first things Hope had done the previous morning was rifle through his music collection, almost as extensive as her own; now, a CD was playing that he hadn't put on for years and the song currently sending its solemn spoken-work lyricism and choral chorus, coloured with distant echoes as wild and untamed as those outer Hebridean shores from which the band sprung, to expand with quiet, cathedral-like intensity into every corner of the room seemed entirely apt. Neither of them spoke Gaelic yet both had, at some time, read the translation, so now subliminally understood and recognised the truth of the words for this moment in their lives...
Co as an dainig na reultan, thuirt mi
(So where do the stars come from, I said)
Co as an dainig grian
(From where did the sun appear)
Tha sinn cho leointe fo na ghealach seo
(We are so wounded below this moon)
Anam craidhte seachad air ifrinn fheinn
(souls tortured beyond hell itself)
Ach tha thusa brosnalchadh nam bliadhnaichean
(Still you keep bringing inspiration to my years)
Le saidhbreas seachad air mo dhith
(with blessings beyond my need)
Cho gheal ri sneachd gach uile gheamhradh
(Whiter than the snows of each winter)
An t-oran gaoil m'fhaosaid chiontach fheinn
(The song of love, my confession of guilt)
O luaidh be siod an gradh
(Oh Love, what power there was in that embrace)
A dh'fhag mi ceangailte ruit an drasda
(that has left me in union with you today.)
Co shaoileadh an rud a dh'fhas
(Who could ever have foreseen all that has grown)
Bho phog aon oidhche earraich
(from a kiss, one spring evening)
'Pog Aon Oidhche Earraich' (A Kiss one Spring Evening). Written by Rory and Calum Macdonald, perfomed by Runrig. Translation from the album liner notes.