Twilight Crossing. Susan KrinardЧитать онлайн книгу.
the Riders. Everyone knows they keep lovers wherever they travel.”
Her throat went dry. “It’s nothing like that. He’s curious about our Enclave, and—”
“What are you telling him?” Greg interrupted. “He doesn’t have any need to know more about us than he already does. None of them do.”
Watching a passing hawk cross the sky, Jamie sighed inwardly. This wasn’t going to go away. And she wasn’t going to change her behavior just because Greg was jealous.
Does he have reason to be? she asked herself. It wasn’t as if she and Timon had ever discussed anything truly intimate. Yes, she’d managed to give away her unease about being bitten, but she’d never let on how attractive she found Timon, how he could draw her like a moth to a flame even when she feared what he was doing to her with every moment they spent together.
“It’s only natural that he’d want to know about an Enclave he’s never visited,” she said, clearing her thoughts. “Every human city-state is different, and I have the opportunity to learn about the ones he’s visited.”
“This isn’t about exchanging information,” Greg said, extending his arm to grab her wrist. “I won’t let you—”
He broke off, yelping in surprise as Timon rode up beside them, grasped his hand and lifted it from Jamie’s. She already knew how strong the Rider was, part of his half-Opir heritage.
But he’d never used that strength against anyone in the delegation. Greg snatched his hand away and pulled his horse’s head sharply to the side, earning a squeal of protest from the mare.
“Are you all right?” Timon asked Jamie.
Shaking with reaction, Jamie stared at him. “It wasn’t necessary for you to interfere,” she said.
“He was hurting you, wasn’t he?”
“Not at all,” she said quickly. “We were having an—”
“Argument?” Timon finished. “You seem to have them often.”
“That’s between me and the Senator.”
“Is it normal in your Enclave for men to dominate their women with threats?”
“I’m not his woman,” she said, flushing.
“But you have an understanding.”
Somehow the subject of her relationship with Greg had never come up between them before. Jamie realized she had been avoiding it, as if merely talking about it would make it more real.
“I don’t know what you would call it,” she said quietly. “It’s more of an—”
“Engagement,” Greg interrupted, keeping her horse between him and Timon. “For the past two years.”
Timon gave Greg a hard look. “Is that true, Jamie?”
She closed her eyes, shutting out Greg’s angry face. “My godfather would like us to be married.”
“But you don’t want to be.”
“How dare you,” Greg spat. “My relationship with Ms. McCullough is none of your business.”
“If there’s trouble between members of the delegation, it is my business,” Timon said. “It could jeopardize my mission.”
“There’s no trouble,” Jamie said, recognizing that she had to put a stop to this irrational hostility.
“I want you to stay away from her,” Greg said to Timon.
“You don’t own me, Greg,” Jamie said, surprising herself with her boldness. “And we aren’t engaged.”
Greg fell into a shocked silence. She had never spoken to him that way. She’d always let him win the battles, because it didn’t seem to make much difference one way or another.
He’d been one of her few friends since childhood. And if he’d changed over the years, become more overbearing since his appointment as Senator, she’d accepted it.
But no one had ever told her his behavior was unacceptable. No one had ever interfered, until Timon.
Suddenly, Jamie felt a sense of freedom. It was as if Timon’s words and actions had given her a glimpse into a part of herself she had left behind a long, long time ago.
“Excuse me,” she said, giving her gelding a little kick. “I need some time to myself.”
Neither of the men came after her as she rode forward, nearly to the head of the column where Timon’s colleague Orpheus rode point. She stopped before she passed him, not wanting to call more attention to herself, and rode a little way off to the side, into the long, unsullied grass.
She let her mind drift as the gelding clopped along at an easy pace. The sun was warm on her skin, and birds sang from the marsh at the southern end of San Francisco Bay. Ahead lay the extensive ruins of San Jose and its outlying suburbs; once the party had gone beyond them, they’d be following old Highway 101 another thirty miles until they reached the junction where they’d turn inland toward the great Central Valley.
But Jamie was thinking about the end of the journey, and the great work to be done there. Work Eileen would have done had she not died twenty years ago.
You would have loved this, Mother, she thought sadly. We could have shared so much.
At least she had the journal. It was close to her heart, the words inside it a comfort to her when she was sad or confused. As she was now.
That night she sat some distance from the fire, not quite cold enough to surrender her privacy. She could see her godfather casting several worried looks her way; she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about her quarrel with Greg or Timon’s interference. Amos would be so disappointed...
“Good evening,” Timon said. He stood slightly behind her, making no attempt to sit, and gazed toward the fire.
Jamie knotted her hands together in her lap. “Hello,” she said.
There was no particular encouragement in the word, but Timon remained where he was. After an awkward silence, he said, “Do you want to marry him?”
Her muscles went stiff. Timon had no reason to bring the subject up again. Greg was right about that; it wasn’t any of his business.
“You won’t have to worry about our arguing anymore,” she said.
“You agreed to stay away from me?” he asked, his voice without inflection.
“That doesn’t seem to be possible,” she said.
“Do you want me to leave?”
She didn’t. That was the problem. Even now she could feel his vital heat at her back, imagine his strong, agile body standing relaxed and yet ready for any danger, envision his eyes glittering in the darkness.
“I wouldn’t have interfered if he hadn’t been hurting you,” Timon said.
“I understand,” Jamie said. She rubbed her arms. “You might as well sit down.”
Timon eased himself to the ground beside her, supple as a cat.
“Will you answer my question?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You don’t know if you’ll answer it?”
“I don’t know if I want to marry him.”
“What is he to you?”
“A very old and dear friend.”
“Then you don’t love him.”
His statement was worse than just impertinent. He seemed to think he could see what was in her mind.
“What do you know about love?”