The Diplomat's Wife(99)

“Dunno. Speaking of drinking, why do I smell like a distillery?”

I laugh softly. “That’s my fault. I needed something to clean out your wound. The only thing I could find was some vodka.”

“That must explain why I feel so good,” he says wryly, handing the canteen back to me. “Seriously, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You’ve saved my life twice. It seemed the least I could do.”

He does not answer but closes his eyes. I study his face, wondering if he remembers our conversation about Rachel. I consider mentioning it again, then decide against it. Instead, I reach down and pick up the photograph. “I wanted to ask you about this. I found it in your pocket when I was looking for more gauze.”

Paul half opens his eyes. “Oh, that’s a girl I had a fling with in Paris.”

“Very funny. I remember having this taken. But how do you still have it? I mean, with the crash and all…”

“Would you believe they found that on me when I was rescued? I was unconscious, practically naked, no identification whatsoever. Seems that was the only thing that made it.”

“But how…?”

“Medic told me I was holding it. Clenching it so hard they could barely pry it from my hand.” He looks away. “I guess I must have been looking at it when the plane went down.”

A lump forms in my throat. “And all this time…”

“I’ve carried it with me. Figured it was my lucky charm, the reason I survived.” His voice is strong and clear. “I know I’m crazy. It’s two years later and I’m still carrying a torch for a girl who’s with someone else.” I wonder again whether he remembers our conversation from the previous night, if he understands that I married Simon because of Rachel. He continues, “I mean, I’m shot and lying in the bottom of a ship with no doctors, no painkillers…”

“We’ll be in England soon.”

“I know, but that’s the crazy part. I don’t care that we’re in this boat or even much mind the pain. I don’t want to get to England. Being here with you is enough. It’s all I want. I mean, last night when I was delirious, I thought maybe finding you again was a dream. But finding out it’s real…this is the best morning of my life.”

My heart pounds. “I feel the same way.”

“You do?”

“Yes, except for the part about not caring whether you get to a hospital.”

His expression turns serious. “But when we get to England…”

I lower my hand to my lips. “Shh. Don’t say it. I just want to be with you right now.” He pulls me down and kisses me with such strength I almost forget he is wounded. A few seconds later, I break away. “You need to rest.”

He nods. “I know. I wish I wasn’t so injured so that I could, I mean we could…”

“Make love again?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I do not answer. Lying next to Paul, I desperately wish the same thing. It would be wrong, I know. Betraying my marriage once had been bad enough, but somehow I could justify it as unexpected, the heat of the moment. Letting it happen a second time, intending it, seems worse somehow. But in a few hours we will reach England, be torn apart by real life. My mind races. I cannot wait to hold Rachel. England means married life, though, going back to Simon. And then Paul will be gone again.

Above us, the horn sounds and the rocking grows heavier. “We’re almost there,” Paul mumbles.

“Yes.” We should sneak off the boat as soon as it docks. But looking at Paul’s pale face, I know that will be impossible. He cannot make it up the stairs. For a minute, I consider going for help, but I am too afraid to leave him alone. We will have to wait here until the ship is unloaded and we are discovered. “Just rest,” I whisper to him. “Hang in there. It’s almost over.” He does not respond.

A few minutes later, the boat bumps against something hard. Above come voices and footsteps, growing louder. I hear the door at the top of the stairs open with a creak, someone descending the stairs. A flashlight shines down inside the hull. Taking a deep breath, I stand up. “Hello?” I call, raising my hands.

The flashlight swings around, illuminating me. “What the…?” a man’s voice exclaims in English.

I shield my eyes, unaccustomed to the bright light. “Can you help us, please?” I can make out two men in uniforms making their way toward us through the boxes. English Customs officers, I realize with relief.

“Stowaways!” the second man exclaims.

“Please,” I say. “My name is Marta Gold and I’m from the Foreign Office. And this man is Michael Stevens with the American government. Call his embassy. But first call an ambulance. He’s been shot and he needs medical attention at once.”

The men look skeptically from me to Paul, then back again. “Don’t move,” one of the men says, then turns to the other. “Radio in to headquarters to check out their story. And send for an ambulance.”

“Please hurry,” I add. The second man turns and scrambles back through the boxes and up the stairs. I drop to my knees beside Paul once more. “It’s all right, darling.” I squeeze his hand. “We’ve made it and we’re going to get you some help.”