Page 85 of Corpse in the Canal

“No.” She set down her glass on the table. “People do not accept me here. They tolerate me at best. As a result, when someone stands up for me, speaks to me like a human being rather than an alien interloper with no right to my home, then I consider him a friend.”

“A friend can still be a murderer. Or been in a position that tells them who is. Solomon and Constance need to know.”

She sighed. “I have been coming, gradually, to that conclusion.”

He raised his glass to her and drank. So did she. Then she looked at him, a smile that was part frustration curving her lips.

“You won’t even ask me, will you?”

“No. But I am willing to listen.”

“Would you tell them?” she asked.

He smiled and finished his brandy, and rose smoothly to his feet. “No. But you will.”

“You are very sure of yourself.”

He didn’t answer, merely walked the few paces to her chair, while her heart seemed to skitter in anticipation. He held out his hand, and her breath caught. Slowly, she placed her hand in his, and his fingers closed around it. He drew her gently to her feet.

It was important to have him on her side. But that wasn’t why she raised her face to his, nor why her whole being pleaded. She counted the beats of her own heart while neither of them moved.

And so I have misjudged, again, and deserve…

He bent suddenly, almost desperately, as though it was his last chance—and perhaps it was. But when his mouth touched hers, it seemed as inevitable and as natural as the dawn after darkness. A soft, tender kiss, asking nothing, just giving. A kiss that did not rush. A kiss, surely, to build upon.

Her eyes fluttered open.

“I am not sure of myself,” he said. “But I like that you haven’t told me to go.” He touched her hair, her cheek, butterfly light. “I like it very much.”

“It is I who should go.” She released his hand, to which she had still been clinging, and he stepped back at once. She felt his gaze burn into her nape as she walked to the closed door, and the need to return the gift of his kiss clamored.

She paused, her hand on the door. “I like you, David Grey,” she said softly, and went out.

*

Without meaning to, Constance must have fallen asleep to the rhythmic sounds of Solomon’s breathing, because she woke to birdsong and daylight, and a crick in her neck from her head falling awkwardly against the wing of her chair.

She sat up straight, rubbing her neck and looking at once toward Solomon, who had turned onto his side, facing away from her. Hastily, she stood up and leaned over him, feeling for his breath, for any feverish heat in his skin.

He smelled warm and peaceful, and he smiled at her touch. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. How are you?”

“Lonely,” he said, turning over with only the faintest wince. He flung out his arm, snaking it around her waist. “Come to bed.”

“That would not be appropriate,” she said primly, “with David about to relieve me at any moment.”

He sighed. “It’s time to go back to Channing House.”

“Not until the doctor has seen you,” she said firmly. “How is your head?”

“Better than it was. You have had an uncomfortable night.”

“You have done the same for me, as I recall.”

He kissed her hand, just as a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Constance said, straightening the bedcovers while Solomon looked amused. She ignored him, greeting David, who entered looking tousled in his shirt sleeves.