Inamorata

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Un Homme Affable, Bon, Courtois, Spirituel...

Chapter Twenty-Nine. Author's note - I'm sorry to announce this, but we're getting kind of close to the end of the story (you've probably already guessed this). I doubt that I will write a sequel, though I've got pretty good ideas for one. Also: about the translation of the French that comes later. Some of the words have multiple English meanings (eg. "spirituel" can be translated as either "spiritual" or "witty"), but I have used the English meaning that makes the most sense in the context of Cyrano de Bergerac.

When David left in the morning, Nightingale sent him along with her letter for Robin and made him promise to deliver it to him. Only when he agreed did she relax a little, flopping back on her bed - which she'd found more and more comfortable over the past few days, no doubt a result of David's kindness - and staring up at David.

Though he usually struck an impressive figure, Nightingale found him even more menacing than usual. It was likely due to the fact that Nightingale now knew that he had, at all times, a sidearm hidden somewhere on his person.

"Remember, Nightingale," he told her, gesturing with one long-fingered hand to her bed. "The gun's hidden under your bed. I'll be with you during the raid, but should Bobby find out before then, use it to defend yourself."

Nightingale's eyebrows rose and she stretched, delighting in the way David's gaze hardened as she straightened her supple limbs. "Are you telling me to shoot someone if I have to?"

David shook his head, allowing a grim smile to grace his face. "No, Nightingale. I'm ordering you to. If your life is in danger for any reason, use that gun."

Now she sprang up. Casting off the sheets and going over to him, she had the audacity to run her hands down his arms before picking up both his hands. She spoke to his palms, not to his face, examining the lines of his hands as though she could tell his fortune.

"Are you saying that, if Bobby finds out, if he's going to shock me to death, I ought to shoot him?" she asked. She dared not look up, as if not wanting to know that David would condone Bobby's murder.

"Yes," said David.

She continued, now flipping his hands over to stare at the backs of them. "And if, say, Rose were panicking and about to give us away to Bobby to save herself, I ought to shoot her?"

"Yes," he said. His voice was calm, composed, and cool, but also fervent.

Nightingale was astounded at the speediness of his reply. He was so sure, so confident that she ought to take another life, even the life of an innocent such as Rose, to preserve her own life. It was shocking.

David must have sensed this, for the hands that Nightingale was holding gently rose to cup her face and lift it to his.

"You're surprised by that," he told her. He didn't wait for her to counter his words before he went on. "You shouldn't be. Don't you know how important you are? How important your safety is? How precious your life is?"

"To you?" she snapped before she could stop herself.

David's face coloured a little but he went on smoothly. "To the case, to the cause. You're the figurehead, the emblem of abolition. I don't think you realize that."

Nightingale shrugged. "Oh well," she muttered, and turned away. "You know, Detective, you really had me worried there, for just a second. That you might accidentally, you know, care about me."

"Angry" was not a strong enough word to describe the emotion that darkened David's face.

"Don't you dare say that to me," he told her, eyes stormy with fury.

"And why not?" she enquired, throwing herself back onto her bed with her eyebrows arched. His anger didn't frighten her, not anymore. She knew she could speak back to David and he would never hurt her. "I'm not sure you are aware of how much you mean to me, David. Why shouldn't I point out that I seem to be far more attached to you than you are to me?"