JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 139 из 203” She lay the great blade on the bed and, rolling over, laid her naked belly on its chill steel.
Sharpe crossed to her. “Give it to me.”
“Get it yourself.”
Her body was warm and strong, the muscles hardened by exercise, and she clung to him. Sharpe pushed her face away and stared into her eyes. “What will happen?” he asked.
“You will get your Eagle. You always get what you want.”
“I want you.”
She shut her eyes and kissed him hard, then pulled away and smiled at him. “We’re just stragglers, Richard. We drifted together, but we’re both on a journey.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You do. We’re going two different ways. You want a home. You want someone to love you and want you, someone to take the burden away from you.”
“And you?”
She smiled. “I want silk dresses and music. Candles in the dawn.” He began to say something, but she put a finger on his lips. “I know what you think. That’s just silliness, but it’s what I want. Perhaps one day I’ll want something sensible.”
“Am I sensible?”
“There are times, my love, when you take things a little too seriously.”
“Are you saying goodbye?”
She laughed. “There! You see? You are taking things too seriously.” She kissed him swiftly, on the tip of his nose. “Come after the battle. Get your present.”
He reached down for the handle of his sword. “Move over, I don’t want to cut you.”
She moved to one side and touched the blade with her finger. “How many men have you killed with it?”
“I don’t know.” It slid into the scabbard, the weight congenial on his hip. He crouched by the bed and took her naked waist in his hands. He stared at her body as if trying to commit it to memory: the fullness of it, the beauty of it, the mystery that made it seem unattainable. She touched his face with a finger.
“Go and fight.”
“I’ll be back.”
“I know.”
Everything seemed unreal to Sharpe. The soldiers in Talavera’s streets, the people who avoided his passage, the afternoon itself. Tomorrow there would be a battle. Hundreds would die, mangled by roundshot, sliced by cavalry sabres, pierced by musket shot, yet still the town was busy. People were in love, out of love, bought their food, made jokes, yet tomorrow there would be a battle. He wanted Josefina. He could hardly think of the battle, of the Eagle—only of her teasing face. She was going from him, he knew that, yet he could not accept it.
Sharpe crossed to her. “Give it to me.”
“Get it yourself.”
Her body was warm and strong, the muscles hardened by exercise, and she clung to him. Sharpe pushed her face away and stared into her eyes. “What will happen?” he asked.
“You will get your Eagle. You always get what you want.”
“I want you.”
She shut her eyes and kissed him hard, then pulled away and smiled at him. “We’re just stragglers, Richard. We drifted together, but we’re both on a journey.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You do. We’re going two different ways. You want a home. You want someone to love you and want you, someone to take the burden away from you.”
“And you?”
She smiled. “I want silk dresses and music. Candles in the dawn.” He began to say something, but she put a finger on his lips. “I know what you think. That’s just silliness, but it’s what I want. Perhaps one day I’ll want something sensible.”
“Am I sensible?”
“There are times, my love, when you take things a little too seriously.”
“Are you saying goodbye?”
She laughed. “There! You see? You are taking things too seriously.” She kissed him swiftly, on the tip of his nose. “Come after the battle. Get your present.”
He reached down for the handle of his sword. “Move over, I don’t want to cut you.”
She moved to one side and touched the blade with her finger. “How many men have you killed with it?”
“I don’t know.” It slid into the scabbard, the weight congenial on his hip. He crouched by the bed and took her naked waist in his hands. He stared at her body as if trying to commit it to memory: the fullness of it, the beauty of it, the mystery that made it seem unattainable. She touched his face with a finger.
“Go and fight.”
“I’ll be back.”
“I know.”
Everything seemed unreal to Sharpe. The soldiers in Talavera’s streets, the people who avoided his passage, the afternoon itself. Tomorrow there would be a battle. Hundreds would die, mangled by roundshot, sliced by cavalry sabres, pierced by musket shot, yet still the town was busy. People were in love, out of love, bought their food, made jokes, yet tomorrow there would be a battle. He wanted Josefina. He could hardly think of the battle, of the Eagle—only of her teasing face. She was going from him, he knew that, yet he could not accept it.