Nights Of Fire

by Laura Leone

  "Yes, he can pass for French," Deschamps admitted as he and Gabrielle strolled down the street, "but Didier knew he wasn't a Frenchman. And I," he added, getting to the crux of the matter, "should have been Didier's successor."

  "So now that Paul is gone," she said, wondering just how far Deschamps might have gone to get the position he felt was his due, "does that mean you're in charge?"

  "In reality, yes. Officially," he shrugged, "nothing permanent has been decided yet."

  "Well," she mused, "you're the obvious choice, aren't you?"

  Deschamps had wanted Paul's position in their Resistance group, and he'd wanted Paul's wife. As Deschamps tucked Gabrielle's hand more tightly into the crook of his arm, she wondered if he had believed that getting Paul out of the way would make both things available to him.

  * * * * *

  Paul knew where they were going. He just didn't know why Gabrielle was bringing this man with her. Or why she was glued to his side like that.

  Wanting to get to the cottage ahead of them, Paul slipped down a side street, then ran along a parallel street, cut through the grounds of the old abbey, and got to the back door of his wife's cottage while she and Deschamps were still meandering at some distance from the front door. He let himself in, then moved to the front of the rough stone cottage, where he opened a window slightly so he could hear them talking even if she didn't invite Deschamps in.

  And she'd damn well better not.

  Paul would definitely have something to say about his wife inviting an ex-lover inside for a cozy chat while he himself was supposedly stranded alone in that drafty barn of her uncle's.

  He flattened his back against the wall next to the window as he heard their footsteps approaching the door. He'd have time to hide in the next room if Deschamps was going to come inside with her.

  Hide in the next room, he fumed. I'm her husband, for God's sake!

  "I don't know," Gabrielle said, "perhaps I did make a mistake, Jean. But even if I did..." She gave a sigh. "It's too late to do anything about it now."

  Paul frowned, listening.

  "But, at the risk of sounding harsh, it's a problem which the Nazis have solved for you, chérie."

  "You can't ask me to want him to be dead, Jean."

  "I know you had feelings for him..."

  Had? Had? The nerve of that guy!

  "...but wouldn't it be better now if he were dead?"

  Oh, as if she'd suddenly want you just because I was dead, you no-talent whiner.

  "If Paul were alive..." Deschamps continued.

  She hasn't told them I'm alive?

  "...then he'd have to suffer the consequences of what he's done. And could you really face that?"

  "I... I..." She sounded on the verge of tears. "You're saying you'd have to kill him."

  Paul risked a glance out the window and was appalled to see Deschamps caressing Gabrielle's face.

  Hey, buddy, don't forget which one of us she fell in love with and married.

  "I'm saying," Deschamps told her, "we'd have to kill him. Your life is at stake, too, Gabrielle. He has betrayed us all. We must all act together in this."

  "You don't know that he's the one—"

  "Six of us arrested or murdered since he was taken prisoner, Gabrielle! It can mean nothing else, and you know that."

  "He's my husband!" she wailed, perhaps overdoing the helpless despair just a touch—not that Deschamps would notice.

  "No one knows that besides me and Father LeRoy," Deschamps reminded her.

  "I know."

  "You'd be wise to forget it. Whether he's dead or alive right now."

  "It seems so wrong. I loved him."

  Loved? Loved? Now that was just great.

  "People do insane things during wartime," Deschamps said, doing his best to sound worldly wise.

  Paul leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, finally understanding. This was bad. Very bad. The local Resistance thought he had betrayed them and would kill him if they knew he was alive. The fact that he'd been released made it look even worse, as if he'd offered the Gestapo whatever they wanted in exchange for his life.

  It was a dangerous situation, and he had no idea yet how he'd deal with it. Nonetheless, he was flooded with relief, even happiness. So this was what Gabrielle wasn't telling him. She was protecting him from her associates in the Resistance.

  "I don't know what to think, Jean," she was saying now, "what to do."

  "Let me help you," he urged.

  I know what you want, you bastard, and it doesn't involve helping her.

  Deschamps continued, "We can get away. I can arrange it. Right now."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have contacts. We could escape. Get out of the way of the coming invasion."

  "But our duty—"

  "We've done our duty since France fell, Gabrielle. Time to be practical. Things are over for the Resistance in Caen. Paul has seen to that."

  "Just leave?"

  "The Gestapo will probably shoot or arrest both of us any moment. Even if they don't, the Allies will tear France apart when they try to invade. How likely are we to survive that?"

  "They won't be shooting French people," she argued.

  "They'll be bombing and shooting everything in sight," Deschamps insisted. "This is war, Gabrielle."

  "I don't know. This is so sudden, Jean. I need to think."

  "Come away with me. Now," Deschamps murmured.

  Paul glanced out the window again. Now Deschamps was trying to embrace her. Gabrielle was fluttering nervously, trying to make it difficult for him to put his arms around her without actually rejecting his overtures. Paul longed to open the door and punch the jackass who was putting moves on his wife, but that would just add to his problems, so he restrained himself.

  "I need time," Gabrielle murmured.

  "Of course," Deschamps agreed, now trying to back her towards the door of the cottage.

  "Time to think."

  "Chérie..."

  "Time alone," Gabrielle said more emphatically, making Paul grin.

  "I understand," Deschamps said, finally accepting that he wouldn't get any further with her right now. "You're distressed."

  Sensitive and observant, Paul thought dryly. He'd started wondering if Gabrielle would have to fake an attack of nausea to get rid of this jerk.

  "Thank you for seeing me home," she said.

  "We'll talk again. Very soon."

  "Yes," she agreed.

  Paul heard her turn the doorknob. He moved silently to stand beside the door. As soon as she was through it, he clapped a hand over her mouth, shouldered the door shut, and whispered, "It's me."

  She stiffened and choked on a gasp, but recognized his voice and did nothing else.

  "Don't say a word," he whispered into her ear. He released her and moved to the window again, watching until Deschamps was well away from the cottage before finally speaking to her. "What the hell is going on?"

  "What are you doing here?"

  "You were practically in his pocket!"

  Her eyes widened with horror. "You didn't come here naked, did you? Paul!"

  "Holding his hand, encouraging him..."

  "Where did you get those clothes? Why aren't you back at the barn where you're supposed to be?"

  "And getting into that car with that lunatic driver!" he continued, enjoying the release of bad temper and frustration. "What were you thinking?"

  "I was thinking," she snapped back, "of getting here as fast as possible so I could get back to you as fast as possible. Why didn't you wait, the way I told you to?"

  "Why didn't you tell me that they think I've exposed them and am responsible for the Gestapo picking them off?"

  She fell back a step. "You know?" She gasped. "You were listening to us!" Her face flushed with anger. "You were spying on me!"

  "Were you going to wait until the war was over to tell me about this?"

  She balled her hands into fists and made a furious
gesture. "How dare you! Paul! How could you?"

  "How could you keep something like this from me?"

  "Because you weren't yourself!" she shouted.

  Since that was irrefutable, he said nothing. They stared at each other in stunned silence for a moment.

  Then, realizing she'd done what she had to do, he nodded.

  "I was going to tell you today." Her voice was resentful, but calmer. "When I got back."

  He nodded again, realizing that was true. "I couldn't tell you whether or not I had talked, and whenever you pressed me to remember, I only got worse."

  "Yes."

  "And you kept hoping I'd remember the truth so we'd know what to do—" He made a vague gesture to encompass the whole situation. "—about this."

  "Yes." She hugged herself. "It's the Resistance I've been hiding you from, more so than the Germans—who aren't looking for you, based on what I can find out."

  "And you've been wondering if I really did betray you all."

  Tears flooded her eyes. "I know it's not in you to do it, Paul. But I also saw you when they released you. Saw what they had done to you." She was crying now. "They could have broken you. Arneau is right, they could have broken anyone. You might not even have known you were talking by the time you talked. You..."

  "Oh, ma mie." He came closer and took her in his arms. "Don't hug yourself, hug me."

  She did, weeping against his shoulder. "Paul, I don't care what happened there! I love you! I won't let them kill you! I won't let you let them kill you!"

  "Shhh... It'll be all right."

  She clutched at him. "We have to get away," she said urgently.

  "No, we—"

  To his surprise, she hit him.

  "Ow," he said mildly.

  "I knew you would say that!" she cried. "I just knew it!"

  He sighed. "Then is it too much to hope that we don't have to waste time arguing about it?"

  She started crying again. "What are we going to do?"

  "We're going to pull ourselves together and sort this out," he said reasonably.

  "Paul, Paul..."

  "It's all right," he assured her.

  "Do you remember?" she asked despairingly.

  "Not everything." And he suspected he would never remember his days in the chateau completely. Too many blackouts, too many hours barely conscious, too much mind-numbing pain. "But the plan is pretty obvious, don't you think?" Now that he knew more of the pieces, the whole puzzle was taking shape.

  "What plan?" she mumbled miserably.

  "Well, not obvious to you," he conceded, "because you weren't there. But one thing I do— "

  "These are your clothes," she said suddenly, pulling away from him. "I remember them." Her jaw dropped. "You did come here naked!"

  "No, I kept them in your uncle's house. But that doesn't really matter right now."

  "And why did you come here? Just to spy on me?"

  "No... Um... Well, actually," honesty compelled him to admit, "yes."

  "Paul!" She had rarely looked more annoyed with him.

  He tried to explain. And since there was no acceptable way of telling his wife that he'd briefly suspected her of being a collaborator, it came out badly and made her angry all over again.

  "How could you?" she raged.

  "Well, you've been thinking that I may have betray—"

  "Under torture!" She was shouting again. "Crazed with pain, half dead, your brain—" She waved vaguely at his head. "—injured!"

  "And there was something you weren't tell—"

  "Whereas you," she hurled furiously at him, "thought that I was betraying you and everyone else for... what? Just for fun? Just for some silk stockings? Money?"

  "Well, your doing it in exchange for them not killing me was my favorite answer, though I'll admit it wasn't a—"

  "Oh, sometimes you really are just the most awful man."

  "I know," he agreed. Since that took some of the wind out of her sails, he prodded, "Would you have tried to find out what I know and tell the Germans if it was the price of keeping me alive?"

  She started crying again. "I don't know..."

  He held her again. "I love you," he whispered.

  "I'm not forgiving you for suspecting me," she warned him. "I'm not."

  "Not right away," he agreed.

  "Not ever," she insisted. "Well... not soon, anyhow."

  "You can punish me for a while," he offered. "You're entitled."

  "It will be a very bad punishment," she assured him.

  He grinned. "Dare I hope it will involve being tied up and tormented?"

  "No. It will involve things like putting a new roof on the cottage and taking care of the garden and getting me lots of black-market coffee." When she noticed his hands wandering down her back towards her bottom, she added, "And we will never ever have sex again."

  "That's a little harsh," he said.

  "I'm in a very bad mood."

  "That much is clear."

  "No fondling," she warned him as his hands moved exploringly over her bottom.

  "Not even a little petting?"

  "Not even any kissing," she told him.

  "That's so cruel, it may be a violation of the Geneva Convention."

  "I don't care, you deserve it."

  He kissed her. "I do indeed," he breathed against her mouth.

  "And don't ever touch my breasts again," she murmured.

  "No?" He started backing her towards their little bedroom.

  "No."

  "So..." He moved one hand from her bottom and slid it up to cup her breast. "This, for example, is forbidden from now on?"

  "Completely." She sighed when he started stroking her nipple through the fabric of her dress, coaxing it into a tender peak. "And never do that again. Don't touch the other one, either."

  He grinned and did as ordered not to do. "My life will be a wasteland."

  "Serves you right," she murmured, letting him push her slowly through their bedroom door, his hands kneading her soft breasts while her fingers toyed with his belt buckle.

  He kissed her again, massaging her tongue with his, apologizing with his touch for thoughts which had wounded her. She slid her arms around his neck and moaned as she kissed him back, warm and eager and sweet. When the backs of her legs encountered their bed, she sank down onto it, pulling him with her.

  "So," he whispered, pushing her dress up until it was bunched around her waist, "if I tried to put my hand between your legs..."

  "I'd be forced to... Mmmm..." She closed her eyes and moved her hips against his caress.

  "Forced to...?" He nuzzled her breasts, then opened his mouth and sucked on one taut nipple through the fabric.

  "Ohhhh... Forced to... make you suffer..."

  Her hand found his crotch and she fulfilled her promise, stroking him through his trousers until he couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't bear not being inside her.

  He pulled her panties down and tossed them onto the floor. "I guess you'll never help me take off my pants again," he murmured, lowering his head to kiss her between her thighs.

  "Never," she agreed shakily, sitting up to work on the buttons of his fly. "Because when I do that..." She pulled him out of his pants, thick and twitching and ready for her. "You're always like this."

  He pushed her back down onto the mattress and slid his hips between her legs. Her fingers, gripping him warmly, guided him to the hot, wet entrance waiting to welcome him with tight, pulsing ecstasy. He thrust inside of her and closed his eyes, shuddering with pleasure.

  She shifted her position and tilted her hips, helping him push as deep as he could. His arms were trembling. Her hands stroked his sides. He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Her lips were swollen and wet, parted and trembling. Her hair was a glorious tumble around her head, her eyes dazed with passion, her skin flushed and rosy.

  Her hands came up to cradle his face. "It's this war," she whispered. "It's this damned war."

  He held her gaze, wishi
ng he could put her inside his head for a day so she'd know how much he loved her, how often he thought of her, how completely he needed her. "I'd have died if I wasn't wrong," he said. "I'd have wanted to die."

  "I could lie to everyone to save you," she told him. "I have. Everyone. But I could never lie to you."

  "Maybe I should have lied to you about... why I followed you. What I thought."

  "No." She massaged him deep inside her body, contracting the mysterious feminine muscles that made him helpless with pleasure. "Every lie leads to another. You and I have to tell so many lies to everyone else. We must love each other with honesty. Without that..." She shook her head. "Without that, we wouldn't really have each other. Not the way we want. Not the way we do."

  He sank down on her, letting her take most of his weight, and wrapped his arms fiercely around her. "I love you so much. If I could make you feel how much—"

  "I do," she assured him, her voice breathless with emotion. "I do."

  They didn't want to talk any more after that, didn't need to. They wanted only to worship each other with their bodies. To drench every sense, drown every sorrow, indulge every desire. They were very slow and tender with each other, knowing the destination was there, but pleased to linger long and languidly on the journey. At some point, well after they had started and before they were ready to finish, they heard the rain come again, drumming mildly on the roof, falling musically on the ground outside. Only a light drizzle. The worst of the weather finally seemed to have passed.

  The rain...

  He knew.

  Operation Overlord. Neptune.

  He knew!

  His wife was moaning softly, luxuriantly beneath him, undulating her hips as he rocked deliriously into her.

  Calais was a fake, a bluff. The Allies would land in Normandy. Nearly half a million men in an all-out assault. The biggest military action in history. Airborne divisions would be dropped in the dark behind enemy lines. The landing beaches had code names: Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, Sword.