The Last Dance (33 page)

‘I know most people marvel at sunsets but I personally prefer the promise that sunrise brings.’

‘There you are,’ she said, trying to avert the sudden sadness that had crept between them. ‘You’re already a poet.’

He sighed and pulled her close. ‘I’m sorry about dinner.’

‘Does he know who I am to you?’

‘He didn’t ask. A gentleman wouldn’t.’

‘Good, because I sensed you were embarrassed when we were with Youssef this morning.’

He glanced at her.

‘I’m not offended but I suppose the sooner we are honest, the easier it will be.’

He raised his cup again. ‘To honesty.’

She sipped, wondering how sincere that toast might be. Stella allowed the potent yet sweet and scented drink to slip down and somehow warm and cool her throat at once. The minted ice was deliciously chilling against the fiery bourbon.

‘Good evening,’ said an aristocratic voice interrupting them.

‘Ah, Wilkinson.’ Rafe shook hands with a man a few years older than himself. His voice was terribly posh to Stella but his smile was as warm as the bourbon.

‘Hello, my dear,’ he said, turning and offering his hand.

‘John, let me introduce you to the woman I love. Her name is Stella Myles. We’ve only known each other a short time but I feel as though I have been searching for this girl all of my life.’

Stella stared at Rafe, dumbfounded, her mouth still open in disbelief as John Wilkinson shook her hand gently. ‘That is quite an introduction, Miss Myles. I’m positively charmed to meet you.’

Rafe gave her a look that asked,
Was that honest enough?
He drained his cup. ‘Let’s get some champagne, shall we?’

She blinked in consternation, looking away from him. ‘Hello, John,’ she said, her mind racing as to what had just occurred and why. ‘Please, call me Stella. I hear we’re dining together this evening.’

‘If you’ll allow me to bully in on your romantic evening,’ he said with a polite nod. ‘Given Ainsworth’s obvious infatuation, I’m sure you have hundreds to share together yet.’

‘I hope so,’ she said politely and smiled for him, even though she felt troubled not only by Rafe’s mood but his hedging around their future and now his reckless announcement of their relationship. Granted, she’d asked for it. ‘I’m starving, actually,’ she added, realising they hadn’t eaten properly today and what had been in her belly she’d effectively violently emptied earlier. ‘Rafe, let’s eat, shall we?’ she suggested, hoping that food might soak up the flute of champagne he had pilfered from a passing tray and was about to chase the julep down with.

Dinner turned into a sombre affair for Stella. The men discussed Britain’s economic woes before inexorably turning to Europe’s doldrums and ultimately to Germany hauling itself from the ashes of war in the fist of its new leader.

‘Odd-looking fellow, isn’t he?’ Wilkinson observed.

‘Short,’ Rafe commented, swallowing a cognac after his fourth champagne. Stella was counting.

‘Usually the most aggressive as a result,’ their companion added with a grin. He had not kept pace with Rafe’s drinks and Stella noted their fellow diner had remained sober and charming throughout their dinner of roasted chicken that was terribly English but Rafe had ordered some authentically local side dishes; one called couscous that was a Berber specialty. It had arrived in a mound, flanked by whole roasted vegetables and served with chopped mint and lemon.

‘Delicious, isn’t it?’ Wilkinson had winked at her.

‘It’s so exotic. I’ve never tasted anything like this before,’ she admitted.

In any other circumstance Wilkinson would have made an amusing and enjoyable dinner companion but Rafe’s increasing intoxication and his mystifying mood change that had prompted it was worrying her. Music had struck up as most people from the dining room had thinned out to finish their evening next door with the small orchestra. ‘Well, dear friends, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take a quiet smoke of my pipe on my balcony and that will do me nicely for today.’ John Wilkinson touched her hand. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, my dear; I’m sure every other man tonight envied me.’

‘You can bet they did,’ Rafe said without slurring but Stella’s irritation was no longer happy to remain tucked neatly out of sight and it took all her effort not to scowl.

‘Goodnight, John. I hope we meet again.’ She stood to show her intent and feigned a small yawn. ‘I shall turn in too.’

‘Stella?’ Rafe said. ‘The night is but young.’

‘Night, old chap,’ Wilkinson said, tapping Rafe on the shoulder. ‘Tonight’s on my tab.’ He walked away before Rafe could protest, perhaps sensing aggrieved words about to be exchanged.

Rafe lifted a careless hand in farewell but his stormy gaze was riveted on her. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To bed,’ she said, smiling at the waiter who pushed her chair in for her. ‘Goodnight, Rafe.’

‘Wait!’ he called far too loudly.

She was glad there was only one other couple dining – two men, laughing loudly with each other over balloons of brandy. She turned back.

‘Rafe. Don’t do this.’

‘Do what? What am I doing?’

‘Making the ruin of our single evening any worse.’ She turned away and in her haste and annoyance stupidly took the wrong doors and found herself back out on the verandah. She swung around to find a different way back but he was right there behind her, his voice as soft as his footfall.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Why am I sorry? Because I’ve upset you.’

‘Why did you try so hard to upset me, I mean?’

‘What have I done?’

‘How much more did you plan to drink? Until you were so drunk you couldn’t support yourself?’ She turned away from him, placed her hands in frustration on the balcony, promising herself no tears. She despised even letting fly with these angry words.

Rafe put his arms either side of her so his hands rested next to hers. ‘It takes a lot more liquor to make me lose my faculties, Stella. I admit I am drunk on love, though, and what I can’t have.’

‘Can’t have?’ She turned around in the circle of his arms. ‘Can’t have? I’m yours. What’s not to have?’ she said, searching his face in the light of the lanterns that had been lit since night had closed in.

A whisper of a breeze stirred a curl of her hair, which he caressed between his fingers with a sad smile. He leaned down and kissed her and it was a heartbreakingly gentle gesture. ‘Just the sight of you, especially tonight, is intoxicating. Can we blame that?’

‘Why so sad, then?’

‘I like Wilkinson but I wanted to bore him into leaving us. I needed you all to myself.’

‘You have me, Rafe. And even if we’re forced apart, you’re right here,’ she said, placing her hand over her heart. ‘And I will always be right there,’ she said, swapping to place it over his.

He covered it with his own. ‘Let’s dance, Stella. Let’s begin tonight again.’

She made a face as though she didn’t feel like it.

‘Please,’ he urged. ‘Let’s go back to where my love for you began . . . on the dance floor, you in my arms, but frosty at me.’ A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. ‘Dance with me?’

‘One dance before I take you up to my bed and only because you’re a good dancer and those are thin on the ground in London, let alone Marrakech, I suspect.’ She fought her way back to find her mood of affection and amusement.

‘One last dance,’ he said, taking her hand, pulling her away from the railing.

She didn’t much care for the sound of those words but refused to remain wintry with him. ‘Here?’ she said, looking around.

‘Why not? I don’t want to share our last dance with any observers, not even the orchestra.’ He began to move her, light on his feet as always, although she could tell his mood was far from bright. She wished she could approach whatever it was that was dancing between them. Stella wondered whether it was his fear about tomorrow, or was it his fear about all the days stretching beyond that and the recriminations they might contain over betraying his family? ‘Stella?’ he interrupted.

‘Yes?’

‘Stop thinking, stop trying to second-guess me. I can almost hear your thoughts. Just close your eyes and dance in my arms.’

And so Stella danced with him, like liquid mercury, cleaving to him but not binding him in a proprietary way. That’s where Beatrice went so wrong, she realised in a moment of epiphany as they moved to the sound of a distant waltz that found them from the ballroom. Beatrice had wanted to own him, control him, in the similar greedy way that a passionate collector might covet an item.

Rafe touched the tiny peephole of flesh in the small opening that the folds of her gown afforded. She smiled for him but he was lost to her, staring at where his finger connected with her skin.

‘You will never be loved as I love you,’ he murmured.

The temptation to quiz him on this prowled around her but she resisted it. Right now she just wanted to be held and to dance with the man for whom she held a love that could never be equalled.

Stella was sure she’d barely slept and yet woke with a start to find she was alone; she sat up, panicked.

‘Rafe!’

He dashed in from their verandah, looking concerned, although she noted he was dressed immaculately in a pale suit, his hair combed with precision, clean shaved and skin glowing as though he’d just stepped out of a movie. How had he achieved all of that soundlessly?

‘Sorry, I thought you’d gone,’ she explained. Her shoulders relaxed and so did his expression. Stella shook her head. ‘How did you fit all that into that small holdall?’ she said.

‘I cheated.’ He winked. ‘I had a suit sent on.’ His voice turned businesslike, as though closing a door on the last two days. They both stood on a new threshold and there was only one direction in which to move. ‘Time’s against us, Stella.’

The words sounded prophetic, even as she yawned.

‘I’ll be ready in a blink. Is there some tea?’

‘Coffee?’ he offered in an apologetic tone.

She rose, padded over from the bed and hugged him, not wanting to confront the issue of today that was nevertheless so tangible that she felt it was standing like a third person in the corner watching them. ‘Thank you, yes, please. I’ll be quick . . . just like you were last night.’

His grin was sheepish. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

‘You’d better,’ she warned, not explaining that although his lovemaking had ended uncharacteristically abruptly, she had been content to hear him sigh and drift into a deep sleep.

When she emerged from the bathroom to a pot of coffee, her hair was neatly plaited back, face scrubbed of all trace of make-up. She dressed rapidly in a narrow cream skirt and a shirt, with a tan belt that she’d deliberately planned to wear today. It was neat, simple and forgettable: precisely her intent. Stella did not want to draw undue attention. Even the dark plait would be tucked beneath a hat and she dug out the glasses she’d lifted from a shelf in the nursery at Harp’s End. She put them on now and looked at herself in the mirror and blinked at the difference her careful preparations for today had made. She swallowed a few sips of black coffee in the hope of stemming the biliousness that had plagued her since the voyage. When would it end?

‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed as she swung around.

‘So?’

‘Where have you gone, my beautiful Stella?’

‘Well, I’m guessing you want me to be as invisible as I can be?’

He approached, looking awed and amused at once. ‘Are those my glasses?’

She murmured a laugh. ‘I’ve become a thief somewhere over the last few weeks too. Yes, I confess, I found them on a shelf in your study and pocketed them. With plain glass in them, I too can play your sneaky game.’

‘You look marvellous. I think you’ve aged about a decade.’

‘This is what you can expect to see in ten years, then,’ she warned. And there it was again: that hesitation before the smile.

‘Clever you.’ He distracted her by swinging her around. ‘The plait is hilarious too – I’m surprised you didn’t go the whole way and pin it into a tight bun so you can be every inch the librarian.’

‘Wouldn’t fit under my hat,’ she said, retrieving it from the bag. ‘Look.’ She plonked it on and pulled a face of pursed lips.

He laughed. ‘You would make a thoroughly good spy. Your preparations are perfect.’ His expression clouded. ‘Listen,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘It all feels amusing but I’m walking you into a serious situation.’

‘I know. I’m deliberately taking a light-hearted approach only because I know how tense you are.’

‘I wouldn’t be if I were alone. Your presence adds a layer of worry I have not experienced previously.’

‘So tell me what you want me to do.’

He blew out a deep sigh. ‘It’s hard to say because I don’t know what to expect. However, rather than groom you, I’d prefer you played it by ear as you have played life since I met you. You’re good at it, Stella; you have sound instinct for situations and you know how to fade, how to step in, when to act. I trust your judgement. The point is, I need you to understand completely that this is not a game.’

She opened her mouth but he wouldn’t let her interrupt.

‘No, wait; I need to impress upon you that whatever information Joseph is bringing with him is as dangerous as a loaded gun pointed at your heart. I want to make sure that the gun never has you in its sights.’

‘Or yours,’ she said, with a warning look.

‘Or mine. However, this is between Joseph and me . . . and whomever else is following him, if anyone is following.’

‘Will this information be written down or are you going to memorise it?’ she wondered aloud.

‘Basil Peach believes it will be on paper. So it’s truly a loaded gun,’ he warned.

‘I understand, Rafe. You want me to be ready to take that gun, I suspect.’ He stared at her and in that look she saw fresh respect. ‘I’m your decoy, aren’t I? Also your back-up, I now realise. I’ve reached the understanding that I am to take the document and its important contents if for any reason you can’t.’

He shook himself as if from a trance but Stella knew she’d surprised a man who wasn’t used to surprises. ‘You take your lead from me and if I say sit here or go there, you do as I ask. None of that fiery spirit is to show. I want you to play the part of the meek researcher.’ He took off her spectacles and gave them a shine, placing them gently on her nose again. ‘The meek, bespectacled researcher, whose only interest is helping me collate information for a new exhibit that is being sponsored through Kew Gardens for the Linnean Society of London.’

‘The Linnean Society?’

‘Started in the 1700s, world’s oldest biological society and named after Carl Linnaeus.’

She nodded, frowning. ‘And he is?’

‘A Swedish naturalist interested in all things botanical and zoological, and the word for butterfly collector is lepidopterist, by the way . . . and if you want to sound very smart, the archaic term, coming from the Latin for chrysalis and its normally golden colour, is aurelian.’ His forehead creased with concern. ‘You see how nervous you’ve made me, I’m now babbling and I never babble.’

‘Unless you’re with Beatrice.’

‘That’s a different sort of babble. I’m entirely in control of that form.’ He turned away, hands on hips. She’d not seen this expression before. He was frightened. ‘Stella, I’ve changed my mind. Please stay here.’

‘Rafe, calm down. You’re going to meet your old friend again and share a few hours. All you have to do is give me a sign and I’ll disappear back to the hotel or . . . get me involved as you choose. Welcome7I promise I will follow your lead.’ She let go and reached for the small satchel she had also prepared. ‘See, now I completely look the part.’ She smiled, trying to push confidence into him, knowing she was his problem and yet he needed her there to add another layer to his disguise.

She watched him take a slow breath as though letting that previous fear go before he looked at his wristwatch and then at her, fully resolved to their duty. ‘Let’s go.’

Despite the warmth and humidity of the climate, Stella couldn’t deny that the atmosphere in their room of love had become so brittle that she felt she could snap it.

This will all be over in a few hours
, she told herself silently. Stella gave a last glance at the bed and reminded herself that the next time she laid her head down on its pillows, all this frightening business would be behind them. They would return to London and make plans for how to be together. The thought of cold, grimy London brightened her immeasurably and she banished all doubt, stepped forward and linked her arms around his neck, grateful for the small heels.

‘Let this kiss be a promise for what we’re going to do when we get back into this room,’ she said. She kissed him slowly and with as much passion as she could load into the moments of such intense connection that even the sounds of the birds faded, replaced by the whoosh of her pulse.

Rafe stepped back, looking moved. ‘You frighten me when you kiss me like that.’

‘Why?’ She smiled tenderly, her lips still close to his.

‘I don’t want to let you go.’

‘After today I promise you never will. Come on, let’s get this over with.’

They walked in silence, a new tension settling in her throat; a lump of worry she couldn’t dislodge no matter how much fresh air she sucked in or tried to swallow. She put it down to the familiar nausea that haunted her but knew she was trying to trick herself. The fact is, she was scared, but it was easier to lie. He kept a distance from her, two paces ahead, and his stride had lengthened purposefully so that Stella felt she had to add a hurried skip every few steps to keep up. Her mental image of them made sense, though; today she was his research assistant and no emotional closeness must be detected.

She followed him through narrow streets that felt strangely familiar to her as they all looked the same. She could hear melodic yet curiously tuneless music coming from somewhere. Trance music, Rafe had told her previously, but she couldn’t remember what else he’d said about it.

It seemed that suddenly Rafe’s fears had leaped from his shoulders onto hers because he appeared fully collected now and focused. He moved with purpose but his lope had fallen into that easy rhythm and she knew he was back in control of his emotions. Her lover – the one who heard poetry in his mind and lived off emotion – had disappeared within and pushing forward was Rafe, the ruthless, cold-hearted spy.

She noticed he ruffled the hair of young children rushing to their local bakery. He smiled at the water sellers, took a moment to wave a friendly
No, thank you
at the fruit merchants who were yelling their wares near their laden baskets. He grinned at the man with the barrow of oranges, still dew-laden and ready to offer up their sweet juice. Despite behaving distantly he was aware of her following and looked behind him from time to time to warn her of mules and carts.

A man offered her teeth-cleaning sticks, while a nut and nougat seller caught her attention; she shook her head at both as young African men sat in an alley hammering out a catchy rhythm on their small drums that halted her. She paused to enjoy their music but Rafe scowled over his shoulder and she hurried on past other musicians, people selling hats, others selling baskets. Women reached out to offer to paint her hands with henna while men with monkeys on their shoulders beckoned.

Stella made every effort to close off her attention to all but Rafe as they entered the medina, an arresting zoo of sound and colour, smells and people moving in all directions. They crossed it quickly but once again her fascination was captured, this time by a snake charmer who sat cross-legged in the middle of the throng. His long white beard was tied into a tiny plait at its end and his scarlet turban failed to hide the white wisps of hair escaping at one edge. Stella felt the rush of helpless alarm, recoiling at the sight of the snake that could kill with a single dose of its venom swaying before its owner. She’d always thought snake charming to be a myth and felt as mesmerised by the scene as the snake appeared to be by the odd music.

Rafe had doubled back, and was now hissing in her ear. ‘Stella!’

‘How dangerous that is,’ she breathed. ‘Amazing.’

‘Not really,’ he remarked, herding her away and forwards.

‘Oh, so you can snake charm, can you?’ she asked, wishing they could have lingered.

‘I guess anyone could if the snake had its mouth sewn shut as that one had. The serpent is helpless; will likely be dead in a few days.’

Stella felt new shock rippling through her.

‘It’s just entertainment, Stella.’

He gestured down a quiet alleyway. ‘It’s not far. A couple of minutes now. Stella, it’s time you moved entirely into character.’

A new sound assailed them and Rafe tipped his head. ‘It’s
salat
,’ he remarked and moved on as the midday call to prayer was sounded by a reedy voice singing from a minaret in the medina.

She nodded, pulled her hat further down as she felt the wailing voice add fresh tension that knotted in her gut like a pulled thread. They walked without talking or touching as men and boys hurried past them to pause at fountains to wash before prayer.

Keep my man safe
, she threw out into the universe and then, as if sloughing off a skin, she shrugged off Stella, his lover, and became Stella Myles, research assistant to Douglas Ainsworth, man of science.

After several minutes of moving in a vacuum, Stella sensed they were entering a new square. This one was almost peaceful by comparison to Marrakech’s main marketplace even though people were still busy hawking their wares.

Stella noticed that Rafe’s stride turned to a saunter. He swung around.

‘Would you care for a tea, Miss Myles?’

She was careful to keep the appropriate distance. ‘Only if you’re having one, Captain Ainsworth.’

His blink was the only sign of his surprise at the title she’d used. It sounded right to her, though. ‘In Morocco, they take mint tea. I grew up here so can attest to its cooling quality.’

‘Then I should like to try one, for it is certainly a warm afternoon.’

‘Over here, I think.’ He pointed. ‘These tearooms should do us.’

They ducked into the cool shadow of the awning that reached out from the nondescript building. The café had no name but she knew they’d arrived at Mustafa’s because on the wall behind them was a mural depicting a peacock. This was indeed the shisha café where Rafe had, as a boy, tried his first smoke.

The tables were empty, save theirs, although she could smell tobacco coming from the depths of the café. A waft of fresh mint drifted by and its fragrance comforted her, as if assuring that all would be well.

He spoke in Arabic to the man who arrived to serve them. Their discussion seemed to last longer than she considered plausible; she noted that the waiter glanced at her, back at Rafe, then smiled and nodded. Rafe gave him a wad of notes.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Stay in character,’ he murmured. ‘So, tomorrow I have organised for a driver and a guide. We will be travelling into the foothills of the Andes. I really do need to sight the local butterfly of the family
Hesperiidae
.’ He leaned back in his chair and fanned himself with his hat.