It was a daily mission. Elise made it an hourly one, a battle he fought minute by minute. But because it was her—because he cherished her—the fight was not only worthy, it was sanctifying to his spirit.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, they lay in bed, their limbs entwined, Elise’s head on his chest.
“Are you sure you are well?” he murmured, stroking her upper arm.
“I am so good,” she answered groggily. “But hungry.”
“Hungry?”
“I hardly ate anything at dinner. Emile will think I’m so unappreciative. If he thinks poorly of me, it’s all your fault,” she told him, pressing a small smile to his skin.
“I hardly think Emile and Richard are ones to judge the idiosyncrasies of two people . . . so involved with each other.”
Her warm breath seemed to cease at his pause.
“Lucien?”
“Yes,” he said, stroking her back now and once again wondering at her softness.
Another pause.
“Have you ever been in love?”
His caressing hand slowed.
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I mean . . . I wouldn’t know for sure if I was.”
“I’m no expert on the matter,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “But I do believe a person knows it, deep down, if they are. It’s just a matter of trusting that feeling, isn’t it?”
For the next minute, he couldn’t be sure if she slept or was thinking. She didn’t move as he caressed her, and her breathing was warm and even on his chest.
“Who was the man who died?” she asked suddenly, her clear voice startling him from his private ruminations about her earlier question.
“What?” he asked, bewildered.
“I heard Herr Shroeder tell you that someone was dead last night. He implied he’d been in prison, and you called him a sick fuck,” she mumbled, sounding very sleepy. “I just remembered that I wanted to ask you about it. I’d forgotten with everything you told me about your mother, and the terrace . . . and the restaurant,” she added lamely.
Her ear was pressed against his chest. He hoped she didn’t feel his increased heart rate.
“Remember I told you that a very important witness had informed Herr Shroeder that Helen Noble likely knew details about my mother’s identity and possible whereabouts?”
“Yes.”
“The man who died was that witness.”
“And he was in prison?” she asked, sounding a little less sleepy now.
“Yes.”
“What for?”
When he didn’t immediately respond, she lifted her head from his chest. “Lucien?”
“Rape.” He expelled the word bitterly. “Worse than rape.”
He felt her mounting concern swelling in the silence.
“Did that man . . . rape your biological mother?” she whispered.
He winced. He put his hand on the back of her head and guided her back down to his chest. He’d tried to prepare himself for it. But when he heard the thick dread in Elise’s voice just now, he knew he was a fool for thinking he could accustom himself to such an ugly truth.
“I’ll never know for certain, until I find her . . . or until I speak with Helen Noble.”
“Oh, Lucien—”
“Not now, Elise. Please,” he whispered hoarsely when she tried to lift her head again. “Let me enjoy this moment with you. Let’s not ruin it.”
He felt her open her lips, but perhaps she registered a hint of his pain, because her lips closed again next to his skin. He hugged her tighter, and she reciprocated. Something swelled inside him, thick and hot, when he felt how she squeezed him with an almost desperate strength.
“I want to help,” he heard her say in a strangled voice.
“You are,” he assured her gruffly, trailing his hand along her spine, pressing her to him even more tightly. “Your being here with me is all the help in the world.”
PART VIII: When We Are One
Chapter Fifteen
Elise raised her eyebrows in delighted surprise the next evening when she accompanied Francesca into the kitchen and saw “Ian’s favorite meal” being checked by Mrs. Hanson.
“Roast beef and vegetables and Yorkshire pudding,” Mrs. Hanson said with an impish grin when Elise leaned over the roasting pan and inhaled deeply of the delicious aroma.
“I was expecting something much more chic, given we’re talking about Ian Noble. I’m pleasantly surprised,” Elise said, grinning. Francesca laughed behind her and Mrs. Hanson smiled.
“Well, perhaps I should have specified that it was Ian’s favorite when he was a twelve-year-old,” Mrs. Hanson said.
“It still is. And it’s quickly becoming mine,” Francesca said. “Mrs. Hanson is a wonderful cook.”
“Will you call me when you start to prepare the pudding? I’d love to watch you, and help out if you’ll let me,” Elise asked Mrs. Hanson, her mouth watering. She was suddenly famished. Ian had called Lucien earlier and asked if it was all right if they arrived an hour later than their original plan. In addition to the later hour, she never really had caught up on her eating since last night. Lucien had gotten an emergency call from Monsieur Atale in regard to the Three Kings hotels in Paris this morning, and Elise had gone for a long run along Lake Michigan while he worked. When she’d returned, her body had been too overstimulated and overheated to eat. Lucien had been too busy with the Three Kings accounts to take a break as well. Besides, she’d sensed his preoccupation, his somberness, and wondered how much of it had to do with what he’d said last night just before they’d fallen asleep.