Jack Higgins - Wrath of the Lion

She turned towards him, her face a pale blur, and then, as if coming to a decision, stood up. “Do you mind?”

He reached for her hand and held it tightly. “Leave me the car, will you? I might join you later.”

And that was that, Mallory told himself. That was very much that. No question of what she had thought of him. Her silence, that stillness, had been answer enough. And the strange thing was that it mattered, that for the first time in years the protective shell he had grown had cracked and now he was defenceless.

His chin was on his breast, hands in pockets, as he turned on to the springy turf beside the road, white in the moonlight that ran down to the harbour.

A small wind seemed to crawl across his face and he drew in his breath sharply. He heard no sound and yet he knew that she walked beside him. He spoke calmly, but with a faint Irish intonation, inherited from his father, always apparent in moments of great stress.

“And what would you be wanting, Anne Grant?”

“A drink, Neil Mallory,” she said, matching his mood, “and perhaps another. Would that be asking too much?”

He paused and turned to face her, hands still thrust into his pockets. In the moonlight she looked very beautiful, more beautiful than he had ever thought a woman could be, and there were tears in her eyes. He slipped an arm about her shoulders and together they went down the hill towards the lights of the hotel.

In the long grass on the hill above the cliffs Raoul Guyon lay on his back and stared into an infinity of stars, his hands clasped behind his head. Beside him Fiona Grant sat cross-legged, combing her hair.

She turned and smiled, her face clear in the moonlight. “Well, are you going to make an honest woman of me?”

“As always, you have a gift for the difficult question,” he said.

“A plain yes or no would do. I’m reasonably civilised.”

“A word no woman is entitled to use,” he said solemnly, and lit a cigarette. “Life is seldom as simple as yes or no, Fiona.”

“I don’t agree,” she said. “It’s people who make it complicated. My father likes you, if that’s got anything to do with it, and I can’t see what they’d have to complain about at your end. After all, I could pass for French.”

Tm quite sure my mother would adore you. On the other hand, we Bretons are very old-fashioned in certain matters. She would never allow me to marry a girl who couldn’t bring a sizable dowry with her.”

“Would eleven thousand pounds do?” Fiona said. “My favourite uncle died last March.”

Tm sure Maman would be most impressed,” Guyon told her.

She squirmed against him, laying her head on his chest. “In any case, why should we worry about money? I know most artists have to struggle, but how many of them paint like you?”

“A good point.”

And she was right. Already he had sold many paintings, working between assignments on the family farm near Loudeac that his mother still managed so competently. Mornings on the banks of the Oust with leaves drifting from the beech trees into the river and the smell of wet earth. Country that he had grown up in and loved. He was aware, with a strange wonderment, that he wanted to take this girl there, to see again with her the old grey farmhouse rooted into its hollow amongst the trees, walk with her over the familiar country that he loved so much.

“Of course, there could always be someone else,” she said.

Her voice was light and yet there was a poignancy there. It was as if she was aware of how near to hurt she might be, and he pulled her close instinctively.

“There was a girl once, Fiona, in Algiers a long time ago. She gave me peace when I needed it more than anything else on earth. She paid for that gift with her life. A high price. I’ve been trying to escape from her ever since.”

There was a short silence, and then she said gently: “Have you ever considered that it might be Algeria that you’re running from? That somehow this girl has come to symbolise everything that ever happened there?”

In that single instant he knew that what she had said was true. That by some strange perception she had struck right to the very heart of things.

“I know I’m young, Raoul,” she continued, “and on the whole I’ve only seen the lighter side, but I know this: the war in Algeria wasn’t the first to send men home with blood on their hands and it won’t be the last. But that’s life. There wouldn’t be any sweet without sour. People get by.”

“At a guess I’d say you must be about a thousand years old.”

He kissed her passionately and she linked her arms behind his neck and pressed her body against him. After a while she rolled away and lay on her back, breathless, eyes sparkling.

“And now do you think I might get to see that farm in Brittany?”

He pulled her to her feet and held her at arm’s length. “Did I ever have a choice?”

She reached up to kiss him and then turned and ran away down the hill. Guyon gave her a start of perhaps twenty yards and then went after her, laughter bubbling up spontaneously inside him for the first time in years.

The bar at the hotel was a long, pleasant room with whitewashed walls, its windows facing out to sea. Two large oil lamps were suspended from one of the oak beams that supported the low roof.

Jacaud and two other men sat at a table in a corner and played cards. Owen Morgan leaned on the bar beside them, watching the play, a small, greying man with hot Welsh eyes and a face hardened by a lifetime of the sea.

Beside an open window Mallory and Anne faced each other across a small table, smoking cigarettes. Far out to sea the lights of a ship moved slowly across the horizon like something from another world and Anne sighed.

“A big one. I wonder where she’s going?”

“Tangiers, the Azores. Take your choice.”

“An invitation?”

“Of the most improper kind,” he said, and smiled.

“You should do that more often,” she said. “It suits you.”

Before he could reply a shadow fell across the table. Juliette Vincente was standing there, a half-bottle of champagne and two glasses on her tray. She was perhaps thirty-five, a plain, rather simple-looking woman in a blue woolen dress, thickening slightly at the waist, but her skin was fresh and clean, the cheeks touched with crimson.

“From Monsieur le Comte, madame,” she said simply, and placed the bottle and glasses on the table.

At the far end of the bar two or three broad steps lifted to another room where de Beaumont sat beside a pleasant fire. Anne nodded and he raised his glass.

“Small return for a delightful meal.”

“Shall I ask him over?” Mallory said.

She shook her head. “Not unless you want to.”

A moment or two later the station wagon braked to a halt outside and Raoul Guyon and Fiona got out, turning to help the General. The old man led the way up the steps confidently and entered the bar.

“Over here, Hamish!” Anne called, and he turned and came towards them.

Mallory got to his feet and brought a chair forward and Fiona slipped into the window-seat beside Anne. Guyon picked up the bottle and nodded approvingly.

“Heidsieck, 1952. How typical for the English to reserve the best for themselves. I must really do something to upset the balance.”

He moved across to the bar and Hamish Grant produced a brown leather cheroot case and proffered it to Mallory. “Try one of these. Filthy things, but nothing quite like “em. Picked up the habit in India.”

Mallory took one and offered the old man a light as Guyon returned. “Our good friend Owen is raiding his cellar. He can’t guarantee that everything will have necessarily come in through the proper channels, but no matter. He tells me that the revenue man only comes once a year and always warns him in advance.”