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‘I will be all right in a few minutes.’ His eyes were still closed and he rested his head back against the golden sandstone.
It was interesting to hear a man admit weakness. Thierry would never have dreamt of such a thing, he would have considered it unmanly. Cleo thought that merely foolish. It was sensible to take a rest, that was all, it did not make Quin a weakling. She studied his big hands with their long fingers as they rested on his knees. There was nothing unmanly about those hands. As she thought it he lifted the right one and slung it around her shoulders, apparently gauging her position by instinct.
‘What are you doing?’ Cleo demanded, twisting against him.
‘Hugging,’ Quin said and settled her firmly against his side. ‘Not groping, don’t panic. I’m a great believer in hugging, we all ought to do it a lot more. Human contact is important, don’t you think?’
I wouldn’t know. Cleo shrugged. Her father never hugged her, Thierry had only taken her in his arms for sex. She supposed her mother must have hugged her, but she could not remember. Mama always seemed so busy, or so tired. But, now she let herself relax a little, it was pleasant to be close to another human being, a friendly, talkative human. His arm around her shoulders was heavy, but not unpleasantly so. He made no move to touch her in any other way. She could feel the beat of Quin’s heart beneath his ribs where their sides touched and he smelt of her own familiar soap, and not unpleasantly of fresh male sweat. She probably smelled of dust and donkey.
‘Who hugs you?’ she asked. ‘Your wife?’
‘Not married.’ He sounded half-asleep.
‘Your mistress?’
The side of his mouth kicked up a fraction. ‘Mistresses aren’t for hugging.’
‘Who, then?’
‘My mother used to. My nieces and nephews do. My old nurse when she isn’t telling me off for something. My brothers. Male friends.’
‘You hug men?’
That almost-smile again. ‘Well, you know—that embarrassed half-hug men do, then we slap each other on the shoulder and clear our throats and start talking about horses or women.’
No, she didn’t know. This was obviously part of that unknown world that she understood as little of as any village woman. ‘Your father?’
‘Not my father.’ There was no smile this time and no colour in his voice.
She understood about fathers who wiped the smile from your lips. ‘You have four older brothers, of course. Is there a Sixtus?’
‘No, I’m the only one with a number.’ Again that careful avoidance of emotion. ‘The others are Henry, James, Charles and George.’
It took no great degree of perception to guess that something was very wrong with his family, or, at least with his relationship with his father. What to talk about now? Or perhaps it was best just to let him rest. It was unexpectedly comfortable sitting quietly together, touching. Cleo closed her eyes. What an idiot I was to be suspicious of him. He is a nice, uncomplicated man.
‘Tell me about your little troop of soldiers.’
Her eyes snapped open. ‘What about them?’
‘I just wondered what they would be like as travelling companions. Are they amiable or aggressive? Competent, do you think? Well-armed?’
‘I have no idea about their efficiency or their arms,’ Cleo said cautiously. ‘I know little about such things. Why?’
‘Because I am going to write it all down in a report and send it off to the British by carrier vulture.’ He rolled his eyes at her. ‘For goodness’ sake, Cleo! Because our safety is going to depend to a great extent on that unit, of course. This is hardly going to be a pleasure cruise. I have no weapons. Has your father?’
‘A musket and some pistols. A sword in the big trunk, I think. But they have been in there for years.’
‘We will get them out and check them over this evening. Is your father a good shot?’
‘I imagine he could hit the side of a pyramid if he was close enough, but I have never seen him with a weapon in his hand.’ It was always Mama who had to deal with the chickens for the pot.
‘We’ll stick close to your soldiers then.’ Quin pushed against the pillar and got to his feet with an easy grace that looked effortless and which must, given his state of health, have taken some will-power.
‘They are not my soldiers.’ She looked at the way he was favouring his left arm. ‘Does that hurt?’
‘I’ll live.’ Yes, he hides a great deal under that pleasant face and reasonable manner. ‘You married one of them,’ he added, not to be distracted from his point, it seemed.
Cleo marched off down the slope to the patient donkey.
