It was like an opiate in his blood, that elation, that slippery burst of joy at having done the illicit and survived to run and steal another day. And he could see it, too, on her face, the giddy delight and shock and pleasure at the thought of what they had gotten away with. And she was turning that happy joy toward him, tilting the pale moon of her face up to his so that she could illuminate him with her joy. It was heaven and hell, torture and bliss. He closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and stopped looking. Stopped thinking. He gave in to the pleasure of having the sublime weight of Lady Claire Jellicoe nestled against him in the narrow, close confines of the boat, and slid down to his own knees, so the long length of his thigh was pressed to hers. He wanted to touch her, to pull her tight against his chest, but she drew back, looking up at him with her wide blue eyes huge in her face, and he had to tell himself that this was all as new and faraway, as his sister used to say, as a West Indies island.
