“Ah.”
A lock of her hair, tugged loose by gusts of wind, glued itself to her lips. Elias looked at it keenly for a moment, but he closed his fingers over the strap of his knapsack instead of brushing it away.
“I’m not engaged,” he replied. “But I am leaving the family business.” He hesitated. “And I’m leaving Mount Lebanon.”
Perceiving her shocked silence, he gave her a moment to recover, idly leaning against the railing, his eyes half-closed against the mist and sunshine.
“What happened?” she dared to ask. And what does it mean for us?
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Wallahi, I love my family, but there’s not enough room for both my uncle and me in the business,” he said. “And outside of that, I have a feeling the Ottomans will make it rough for us. Their control over this region is slipping, there’s something in the air in the cities on the coast. They can’t really fight us in the mountains, but they can cut us off, the supply routes . . .” With a glance at her perturbed face, his voice trailed off. “If there’s a war, I will come back here to fight with Zgharta,” he said brusquely, “but as long as all remains as it is, quite stable, quite good, I’ll just start building my business elsewhere.”
She took a fortifying breath. “Where will you go?”
“London. I might expand to America.”
“London.”
“It’s the largest city,” he said, “but terrible weather.”
“I suppose,” she said, feeling a little faint.
“I own a property in my father’s hometown here, in Jbeil. We’ll pass it soon, I’ll point it out to you. I’ll build a larger house and spend the winters there, once the company is running well.”
“London,” she repeated, her heart thumping wildly in her throat now. She could see him do it. He had the brains, the optimism, the fortitude, and adaptability to make a success of himself, she would put connections at disposal. She felt fiercely possessive of him that moment, of his capability and competence, and envious of anyone lucky enough to walk through life by his side. It made her long to be in his arms, naked, her skin desiring the feel of his with an urge akin to hunger. Of course, he noticed. He made a soft, clucking sound of disapproval, but then a smug smile curved his mouth. That smile vanished rather fast when she looked him in the eye and slowly licked the salty spray off her bottom lip.
The hunger beat through her body when they arrived in Chekka and had lunch by the sea; when they picked up the horses; when Elias pointed her toward a cluttered little garment shop and told her to change her skirt into a pair of billowing cotton trousers for the ride. They would have company during the journey, one of Elias’s family guards had stayed with the horses and would travel with them.
Heat, dust, thyme-scented air, and striking views over forested mountain slopes registered on the periphery of her perception. His V-shaped back, right ahead of her, took up most of her focus. Occasionally, her thoughts circled the fact that he would have come to London, independently of whatever was between them, and that one day she could have bumped into him while walking down a street in Chelsea unawares. Perhaps he’d have had a wife on his arm. The mere vision twisted her gut, sickened her, yes, she’d have perished right there on the pavement. If there had been any doubts left whether jumping onto a boat to Greater Syria had been the correct decision, here was her answer.
When the sun was descending toward the sea behind them, they stopped in the small mountain town of Chira to take rooms for the night in an inn.
“I will sign us in as husband and wife,” Elias said. “Any objections?”
No. No, she had no objections.
“Will we ride through Ehden tomorrow?” she asked.
He waved his hand in dismissal. “We’re taking the road on the other side of the gorge.”
She suspected he wanted to avoid crossing paths with his family. It was sensible; it saved him a slew of pressures and complications given their unorthodox situation, and a part of her appreciated his caution.
Their chamber was small, though the bed would fit two. The window front revealed a large balcony and sweeping views over yellow-green slopes rolling to the sea. A mezze dinner was served on the balcony, and she rather gorged herself on the variety of flavorful dishes. Elias was watching her quietly, evidently pleased with her appetite. In the distance, the setting sun lit the strip of sea on fire. We could be on that beach every winter, she thought. She was testing the possibility, listening into her body as she turned it over in her mind.
The table was cleared, and she was served a drink. Across her on the pillowed bench, Elias was smoking a water pipe and the sweet smoke and soft gurgle of water lulled her yearning tension.
“I had an idea for a book,” she said, sipping cold white wine. “It occurred to me somewhere between Marseille and Beirut. Odd what a few days at sea can do.”
Elias’s eyes were half-lidded, he seemed fabulously relaxed. “What will you do?”
“I’ll finish the anthology, about powerful women,” she said. “But I will add another part—about remarkable women today, who stand on these bygone women’s shoulders, who are leading, influencing, and most importantly, thriving. If academia doesn’t want it, a commercial printing press might.”
Elias exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “It’s very good,” he said. “May you write it quickly.”
She wondered whether he was thinking of her schedule, first acclaim, then family. It steered her thoughts back to the bedroom.
Her disappointment when Elias grabbed a pillow to make a bed for himself on the floor plummeted through her body like lead. He went out onto the dark balcony while she changed into her nightgown in the washroom, and he didn’t come inside until she had slipped under the covers. Fine. He was being a gentleman. Then it was his turn to come from the washroom, and her toes curled under the blanket. He was trying to torment her. He wore familiar low-slung pajama trousers and nothing else, strode carelessly right past her bed with his muscles sliding enticingly under his skin and his chain gleaming softly on his bare chest.
He leaned over the nightstand, wrapping her in his clean scent.
“May I,” he asked, looking at her, brows raised, his fingers on the valve of the gas lamp.
“Of course.”
She would not travel for a few thousand miles and then beg for it. She did have some dignity.
He stretched out on the floor with a low sigh.
The moon was out and coated the room in silver.
His breathing was light and slow.
Neither of them moved.
In the tense silence, she heard him swallow.
She turned her head on the pillow.
“Elias.” A whisper, trembling under the weight of her longing.
She held her breath.
A rustle.
He was sitting up, and his bare torso appeared next to the bed.
His eyes glittered from the shadows, filled with a hunger that was matching hers.