Free The Prisoner (1979) by Hank Stine Page A

strong, severe, unyielding. There was something sullen and defiant in her expression: an unnatural gauntness in the cheeks.
    ‘All right, darling,’ she said. ‘But it’s a little hard to believe in a man for two years without seeing him.’
    He went to the fireplace, knelt, and grasped the screen, shoving it aside so that he might reach the logs. He brought out his lighter, flipped back the top and snapped the wheel, watching the flame spring from the wick. He leaned forward and extended his arm until the lighter was under the shavings.
    The flame licked out, singed the blond wood black, and a tiny nimbus of fire spilled up across the dry, splintered kindling. It blazed immediately, blue flame cooling upward to yellow. The fire seared the underbelly of the logs, popping and snapping.
    ‘What’s happening now,’ he said, ‘is so different from anything I have been through before that you cannot guess what it is like. Nor can I tell you. Yet it is, in its way, far more important than anything I have ever been involved in.’ He leaned forward and looked straight into her eyes, seeking, by as much as it lay within his power, to insure her understanding: ‘But you must understand this: I will not allow it to come between us or to hurt us any more.’
    She looked at him for a moment, sighed and smiled with a deathly weariness. ‘Yes, John.’ She reached long, slender fingers to him.
    He stepped forward and took them, the fine cool tension of her body (even if by so little) within his grasp. ‘To tell you more would be to endanger you. And I won’t do that.’
    A tired, unhappy look came into her eyes. ‘You are over protective, darling. Not knowing hurts more than anything that might be done to me.’
    ‘Then I’m selfish,’ he said abruptly. ‘But I need your love too much to risk losing you.’
    There was a sound of plastic on metal and footsteps coming across the carpet. The dwarf rolled the teacart up to them and stopped, uncorking the brandy and pouring equal amounts into snifters. The liquid fell and splashed, sparkling darkly.
    The little man recorked the bottle and bowed stiffly, then stood, waiting.
    ‘Good night.’ He dismissed the butler and seated himself by Janet, watching the dwarf go back to his quarters at the rear.
    He closed thumbs and forefingers on the stems of the snifters and handed one to Janet, offering the other in toast. She took hers and sat back, watching him over the rim. Her eyes had a cautious, nervous intensity.
    ‘To us.’
    They drank the toast. Fire like velvet over his throat.
    ‘How long will it be, this time?’ Janet’s face was tense, smooth, under control.
    ‘How long…’
    ‘Until you have to go back?’
    He shook his head, ‘I’m not going back. But there are a few things yet to be cleared up.’
    ‘Are they—’She hesitated, visibly trying to come to grips with the question: eyes narrowing, mouth tightening. ‘—urgent?’
    ‘Yes.’
    She sat the snifter down and brought her gaze to his, catching her lip between her teeth. ‘Then I must go. You see that: don’t you?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly, ‘I see it.’
    ‘Listen to me, John. There are only a few times in our lives when we are given the chance to love greatly. That kind of love is like a work of art. It’s as difficult and demanding a creation as a painting or a symphony. You know that and I know that. We both know how magnificent its rewards can be. Now understand me. We have a chance at that kind of love, and if you think I shall let it be destroyed, you are mistaken. And if it comes to a showdown between you and father—father be damned. I love you and I will have you.’
    He waited.
    ‘There is much I have to ask you,’ she said. ‘But it can wait. Will have to, I suppose.’
    ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and she was in his arms, crushed to him as his lips met hers.
    They broke apart.
    She smiled, touched his cheek, and was gone.

H e knocked at the door: a sharp penetrating rap and