Assignment - Black Viking (21 page)

“Your father will live,” Durell said.

“Yes. And I shall see him later, when this is all finished and things are quiet again and I can tell him how sorry I am that I doubted him and believed, to the end, that Olaf would help us if I could only convince him—” Durell smiled. “Take it easy, Sigrid.”

“I am nervous,” she said.

“You? That’s not like you.”

“I hate apologies.”

“None are needed.”

“Yes. And I hate this work. I am not really of a temperament to continue in it. Not after I so misjudged Olaf.” She shuddered violently. “I might have killed us all. Killed you, and Papa—and the whole world.” She turned on his bunk, and he could not help but be aware of the smooth, lithe curve of her hip and thigh. She propped her chin in her hand, wincing as her shoulder wound sent a pang through her. It was only a flesh wound; but it was uncomfortable enough, Durell thought. But she was young and strong and scarcely aware of it. There were bruises on her tanned face, where Olaf’s fist had cruelly beaten her. One comer of her mouth was slightly puffed. Somehow, it only served to make her look more appealing. She watched him with great, innocent eyes that glistened with unshed tears. “I’ve been such a fool, darling man. Sam, would you leave your work and stay in Stockholm with me?”

“No,” he said.

“You are not very courteous.”

“Courtesy has nothing to do with it. It’s a great temptation. Perhaps in a few weeks I’ll get some leave—” 

“Even that would be nice.”

“Would you settle for that, Sigrid?”

She rolled over on her back. She was silent for a long time. The Vesper rolled, lifted, and forged ahead. Water ran whispering along the fine lines of her hull. Durell sat down beside her on the edge of the bunk. She reached up and touched his mouth with an exploratory fingertip. She wore a sweater and skirt which, woman-like, she had managed to change into after boarding the yacht. Under her tan, her face was still pale, but whether it was from the wound and the bruises she had suffered, or from an inner anxiety and uncertainty, he couldn’t know. Her long, pale hair spread on the pillow about her as she considered him.

“I loved Olaf,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“But I was so mistaken about him. I forgot my work, my duty. I risked my father’s life, everything—”

“Hush. It’s over with.”

“No, it will always be with me. Am I mistaken about you, too, Sam?”

He leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips were cold. He spoke against them. “I’ll ask for two weeks in Stockholm. Try me then, and we’ll see.”

He really had to radio McFee, he thought.

Sunlight came through the cabin port and touched Sigrid’s face. It was warm and friendly. She lifted one arm and clung to his neck and then she kissed him back, an exploratory gesture at first, then suddenly filled with need and longing.

“Fabulous man,” Sigrid sighed.

He decided that McFee could wait.