by Laura Leone
"This body is mine as much as yours," she informed him fiercely. "You gave it to me."
Wedding vows. "With my body I thee worship."
"Yes. And you have been... well, a very dutiful husband in that respect."
"But not in other respects?" he asked.
She pressed her face against his neck. "As much as you can be, Paul. But the war is not kind to lovers. Or to marriage."
No. Obviously not. A secret marriage. A wife who was often alone. A husband who told her precious little about his work.
"How did I wind up in your cart?" he asked suddenly.
She sighed shakily. "That last time I saw you was in May. You—"
"What's the date now?"
"June fourth. Almost June fifth, I suppose. It's nearly midnight." Feeling his tension, she prodded, "Paul? What is it?"
"I don't know." June... June... D-Day.
The invasion will be soon.
He didn't know how he knew, but he knew.
Words and images suddenly flooded his mind, making his head ache fiercely.
Neptune. Overlord. Omaha. H-Hour. Utah. D-Day. Poker.
"I didn't know how long you would be gone," Gabrielle continued. "You're always vague. And your cover is always that you're trying to get back into wine brokering, going to cultivate some contact or investigate some possible business opportunity which seldom works out."
"What a pathetic fellow I must be."
He felt her smile. "You're good at making it appear so."
"Still, it seems that the Germans stopped believing it."
Now she trembled briefly. After a moment, she continued, "Then three... no, four days ago, Deschamps told me—"
"Who?"
She hesitated for a moment. He wondered why. Then she said, "Jean Deschamps. A musician from Le Havre who's working in Didier's café now. He's in the Resistance. Deschamps is one of the few people besides me and Didier who knew you were an American. And he told me that he found out that you had been arrested by the Gestapo and were being interrogated. They took you to—"
"—to a chateau they use. It's a few kilometers outside of Caen."
She froze. "You're remembering?"
He knew where he was, of course. The infamous chateau. Didier had died here. He would die here, too.
"I must be," he murmured vaguely, trying to seize and hold the memory, trying to squeeze everything he could from it.
"I knew you would want me to do nothing, to carry on as usual. But I couldn't, Paul, I just couldn't!" She sounded as if she expected him to argue about it. He didn't. "So I found your binoculars, and I came here to get my uncle's horse and cart. Then I hid the cart in the woods, about two kilometers away from the chateau, and I put the horse in a pasture that was closer. And I began my vigil, watching the chateau." She brought her hands up to his waist and dug her fingers in there. "I thought I was waiting for your corpse. If they had arrested you on a mission, they must know everything, or at least suspect enough to torture and kill you. I knew they'd never let you go alive. I knew I'd never see you again... But I thought if, maybe, they got rid of your body afterwards... If I could at least bury you..."
He felt her tears and held onto her, letting her feel how alive he was. Her skin had dried, and her hair smelled sweet, like fresh rainwater. He wondered if she had washed it today. "Shhh..."
"And then they dumped your body outside the gates. Filthy and bloody, but even from far away, through the binoculars, I knew it was you. Of course I knew. I didn't care if they knew I wanted you, didn't care what they might do to me. You were dead, and I wanted to die, too. I went to you. I was crying..." She shivered. "And you were breathing." She hugged him fiercely now, careless of the wounds on his back. He ignored the pain and welcomed her embrace. "You were alive." More tears. Her voice quivered with relief.
She continued, more energetically now, "I don't know where I got the strength. I just know there was no way I was going to let you die. I got you as far as I could, dragging you, making you use your legs as much as you could, carrying most of your weight myself. You were completely incoherent, with no idea what was going on. I was sure you didn't even know who I was... Which," she added sadly, "you didn't. Did you?"
"I don't remember any of this. Even though you got my legs to work a little, I doubt anything else was functioning."
"Anyhow, I eventually got you to the horse and slung over his back. Then I led him to the cart and harnessed him. Getting you into the cart was even harder than getting you onto the horse."
"And you covered me with straw, smuggled me past a checkpoint, and brought me here by dawn."
"Yes."
No wonder he had married her. He was obviously no fool when it came to choosing a woman. He kissed her forehead. "I owe you my life."
"Yes, you do," she whispered. "And I will not let you take it away from me." Her mouth was warm and sweet against his. "So be careful coming down that ladder now. And eat something, for goodness sake."
Chapter Four
June 5, 1944
There was no window in the portion of the barn underneath the loft, so Gabrielle lighted a lantern in that corner as she waited for Paul to come inside. He had absurdly insisted on being left alone out in the dark while he attended to the call of nature—as if they hadn't shared intimate quarters, with all that implied, for over a year.
She briefly rested her head against the rough wooden wall of the barn, emotionally exhausted. Worrying about him after he had left on his mission had been hard, as always. Hearing he had been arrested by the Gestapo was horrifying, and nothing in her life would ever equal the agony of believing him doomed to certain death at their hands. Then there was the incredulous joy of discovering him alive, the terror that he wouldn't survive, the anxiety and sheer physical exertion of getting him here, caring for him... Through it all, the heavy weight of other fears loomed over her, breathing hotly down her neck, weighing darkly on her back.
If her associates in the Resistance knew he was alive...
No! They won't find out. I won't let them.
Not until she herself had the answers they wanted.
That he should have no memory of what happened in the chateau... It destroyed whatever half-formed plans had been in her mind. She was flooded with doubt and fear, which in turn led to guilt and uncertainty.
And no memory of me...
She couldn't stand it. She was amazed she hadn't crumbled under the weight of her despair when she discovered he didn't remember her.
They had loved each other without reserve. Before meeting him, she hadn't known it was possible for two people to be as close as they became after falling in love.
He was half of her heartbeat, the part of her soul which had been missing.
She had been that dear to him, too. She'd known it, and he had never let her doubt it. He had understood her, cherished her, teased her, put up with her, fought with her, worried about her, encouraged her... loved her.
But today.... he'd had to ask her name.
Gabrielle stifled a sob and forced herself to concentrate on doing something useful. She heated water over the lantern's flickering flame. Then she briefly set aside the little pot and replaced the lamp's glass chimney before steeping some of her hoarded tea leaves in the water.
Tea, coffee, food, medicine, stockings, clothes... Everything was so hard to acquire these days. Paul had a good salary accumulating in America, his OSS pay, and a few secret stashes of cash here which he used for bribes, weapons, and emergencies. Gabrielle had never dared use that money for their daily needs, though; they couldn't afford to attract any envy or attention.
She nearly wept as she thought of his injuries now. She should have risked stocking up on more bandages, more black-market medicine. He tried to hide it from her, but she could tell he was in pain.
Oh, my love...
How could he not know her?
He was the same man as always. The man she loved. The man she had wanted since the day they first met...
But one with no memory of her now, of their love, of their marriage, of all they meant to each other.
A cat in heat.
Her blood burned with embarrassment as she remembered making love to him at dawn. It was one thing to behave that way with the man who loved her, who had pledged his lifelong devotion to her. The man who had taught her exactly what he liked, damn it, and encouraged her to experiment with his body, and hers, through all the long, luscious nights in the bed they shared! It was quite another thing, however, to behave the way she had with a man who didn't even know her, who had no awareness of the life they shared and the love they gave each other.
Yes, he had seemed confused, dazed, not quite himself. But that was to be expected of a man who had been tortured by the Gestapo and left for dead outside the gates of the chateau! How was she to know she was making love to someone who didn't speak her name because he couldn't remember it? He had touched her like her husband, responded to her as her lover, looked at her the way he always did.
She strained the tea.
Well, there was no point in dwelling on it, and it was silly to be embarrassed. He was her husband, after all.
Writhing against his hand, manipulating his fingers to show him what she wanted...
"Oh, God."
Sucking on him like he was made of sugar, relishing the hard, velvety feel of him in her mouth... Massaging him with her tongue, because she knew he loved that, and she loved doing it for him...
She sliced some of the bread she had gone home to get yesterday while he was sleeping. Before she came back here last night and took off her clothes for him.
Wanting his hands on her breasts, because she loved the way he massaged them. Pulling his hands to her hot, wanting body while he lay in the dark, weak, confused, half-dead, and not even knowing her name... Moaning and pushing her hard nipples into his warm palms...
"Cheese," she muttered. She would give him cheese with the bread. She'd nearly forgotten she had brought it.
Rubbing his quivering parts in the early dawn light, delighting in touching him, arousing him. So thrilled that he was alive, there, hers, whole...
"Hard." The bread was hard. Day old bread. She had nothing better to give him.
She felt the hot throbbing between her legs and knew what she wanted. She wanted him again. Now that he knew her name. Now that he could say it.
"Well, he is my husband." And they had never been able to get enough of each other. Not from the start.
She could make him remember. She knew she could. And she had to, because the longer this continued, the more danger they were in.
She turned when she heard him reenter the barn. He looked slightly damp from the fine drizzle now misting the air. She prayed the slackening of the rain was a sign that the foul weather and cloudy skies would finally be past them by morning.
"What took you so long?" she demanded.
He hiked up the blanket which he had insisted on draping around his waist to cover his nakedness. As if she didn't know exactly what was under there. As if she weren't his wife, with every right to see all she wanted to see.
Clothes. She rolled her eyes. After the first time they ever made love, right here, he wouldn't let her put on her clothes for eighteen hours. He just kept looking at her, touching her even in his sleep, waking to make love to her again...
She felt an irrational surge of temper flare through her. How could he not remember?
She took a steadying breath, recognizing how overwrought she was. Well, who wouldn't be, under the circumstances?
"I said," she prodded, "what took you so long?"
He nodded towards the far wall, where there was a blanket-draped window, then winced at the pain this caused in his injured head. "I was making sure you were right."
"About what?"
He glanced toward the lantern in the corner under the loft. "That it can't be seen from outside."
She put her hands on her hips. "Well, that is just like you."
She saw his mouth twitch at her irritable tone. "Is that for me?" He moved towards the food.
"Don't change the subject," she snapped. "Wandering around in the dark, in your condition, because no one but you is a good judge of what is safe or not safe. That is so like you."
"And tea, too? How thoughtful."
She sighed, seeing that he wasn't going to let her pick another fight. It was probably just as well, since fighting wouldn't make her feel better now. Fighting wasn't what she really wanted.
"Sit down," she ordered, indicating a rough little work table and a stool.
He sat on the stool, moving carefully, but with more ease than his earlier movements. It was probably good for him to be up and around now, she decided. And certainly good for him to take some nourishment. "Bread, cheese, fruit, tomatoes." She placed the plate on the table and shrugged. "I'll do better tomorrow."
He reached out to squeeze her free hand as he took the plate from her. "This is good," he assured her.
Paul...
Even the cut lip, swollen eye, and general bruising couldn't hide how attractive his face was. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, strong-boned. He tanned easily and had already picked up sun-warmed color even though summer was only beginning—though the past week in the chateau, with all they had done to him there, meant he was now a little paler than when she had last seem him. In their home. In their bed. He had made love to her, held her until she slept, and then left in the night, as she had known he would.
Seeing him finish his glasscup of tea, she poured more, then sweetened it. One shallow spoonful. Just the way he liked it. Not that he was much of a tea drinker. But coffee was hard to get.
He was thirty-three years old, and she supposed he didn't remember that, either. Big boned, broad-shouldered. Very fit. And, as she had good reason to know, full of stamina and endurance.
Heat pooled in her belly.
To keep her hands busy, she started removing the bandages on his back.
"Do you have to do that right now?" he asked.
"Yes," she said tersely. She had to touch him.
"Ow," he said mildly as a bandage stuck to one of the welts. They had whipped him. More than once. Two of the welts were quite bad.
"But most of them of them look better," she murmured to herself.
She gently cleaned his back, then let the wounds have some air. When he was done eating what she had given him, she offered him more food and was pleased when he accepted. A returning appetite was a good sign. He had seemed so close to death when she found him. Now she put fresh dressings on his back while he ate more, wondering if the beating would leave scars. He'd always had the most beautiful back. She, who was a sculptress by training and vocation, had felt uniquely qualified to appreciate the body he worshipped her with. The ripely-sculpted, smooth-fleshed, muscular beauty of his back had always entranced her.
She cleared away his plate when he was done eating, then finished dressing his wounds as best she could. After pouring him yet another cup of tea, she went outside to the water pump.
"What are you doing?" he asked when he saw her, damp from the weather, carrying a bucket of water back into the barn.
"Your hair is dirty," she said critically.
He eyed the bucket. "I don't think I—"
"I'll do it."
"Oh." He suddenly smiled. "In that case..."
She found an old flannel rag and, ignoring his fastidious protests, draped it over his shoulders. Then she turned him so that the bucket on the floor was between his feet. She placed a hand on his head and instructed, "Bend over. Slowly."
He did. "Ow."
She supposed the blood was rushing to his head, despite his careful movements. That swelling... Thank God they hadn't killed him with that blow. Not wanting to cause him more pain, she quickly sluiced water over his hair with a tin cup, letting the excess fall back into the bucket. "All right. Sit up."
She soaped his hair, then starting gentlystarted gently rubbing his scalp, careful not to put pressur
e on his head injury. He was tense for a few moments, then closed his eyes, sighed, and relaxed.
She stood close, pressing her stomach against his bandaged back, while she worked the lather through his thick, short hair.
"That feels good," he murmured. "And... familiar."
She paused, seized by a desire to cry. A need to beg him to remember her, to come back to her.
"Gabrielle?"
She continued massaging his scalp, letting the lather-slick strands of his dark hair twine around her fingers. The heat of his back soaked through her slip, warming the chill inside of her.
"Do you do this often for me?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "Whenever you come home... I've always missed you so much, been so afraid you're dead this time..." She sighed. "So I like any excuse to touch you. To keep my hands on you. To be close. Like this..."
"It's very hard for you," he guessed. "The work I do. The way we live."
She rubbed her knuckles into his nape. "It's hard for you, too," she admitted. "You don't like me being here. Working for the Resistance. You've begged me many times to leave France. Since we met, really."
He turned his head slightly. "Tell me how we met."
"Bend over again," she instructed.
He did, and she started rinsing his hair, pouring cupfuls of water into it, watching the dark, gleaming hanks emerge from beneath the pale foam.
"Didier brought me to meet you," she said.
"Ah."
"You stared at me a lot."
"I believe that."
"I was supposed to encourage a Nazi major to court and seduce me. So I could get access to his secrets. You told Didier it was a bad plan, we must call it off."
"Of course."
She smiled now, remembering. "I thought you didn't trust me, didn't think I was capable or reliable."
"No, that wasn't it."
"You're remembering?" she asked hopefully.
He shrugged. "I can just tell. I would have seen from the beginning how capable you are."