His Little Girl

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Dora.’ He said her name softly. Then, ‘Dora, my darling girl.’

  Dora stirred, opened her eyes. She thought she’d heard John call her name, and for a moment could not decide whether she was asleep or awake. Then as her eyes focused on his face she knew that she had to be dreaming. John was locked up, unattainable... Yet could dreams be this real?

  She didn’t dare to put out her hand, try to touch him, afraid his beloved image would simply disappear. Instead she said his name.

  ‘John?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, my darling.’

  He’d called her his darling. She’d felt his breath against her cheek as he said the word and still she didn’t quite dare to believe it. She stretched out her hand to touch his as it lay on the sheet beside her, then snatched it back again, terribly afraid that he was simply a figment of her desperate longing, that if she tried to hold him she would wake up and the emptiness would rush back.

  ‘Why did you pretend, Dora?’ he asked.

  He spoke again. Could she answer? Only with the truth. ‘Because I was afraid.’

  ‘Of me?’

  ‘No!’ She reached out then and grasped his hand, desperate to convince him. ‘Of myself. Of my feelings.’ And then she knew. ‘I’m not dreaming, am I?’ He shook his head, took her hand and placed it against his cheek, kissed her fingers, her palm, with such sweetness... ‘But I don’t understand. I heard the magistrate sentence you...’ She sat up abruptly, suddenly wide awake. ‘Oh, my God, you’ve escaped—’

  ‘No!’ He put his finger to her lips to stop her. ‘No, darling.’ And he rose to sit on the edge of the bed, touching her face, her hair, before pulling her against his chest, holding her there. ‘I’ll never escape—don’t you know that? The six months the magistrate gave me was suspended, but I’m a prisoner still. Your prisoner. For life.’ He produced a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and offered it to her. It was the note she’d scribbled in the hospital. ‘Did you mean it?’

  She lifted her head and looked him full in the eyes. ‘You know I did. Why wouldn’t you see me, John? Why did you send back my letter?’

  ‘You know why.’ She shook her head. ‘Dora, I thought you were married to Richard—’

  ‘But surely Fergus—someone—must have explained—’ She gave a little gasp. ‘But why would they? No one else knew. Oh, John, if only I’d had the courage to trust you completely.’

  It was his turn to look confused. ‘You had courage enough for ten, Dora. I don’t understand. If you didn’t think Richard was keeping us apart why did you think I was staying away from you?’

  She coloured. ‘I’ve been such an idiot...’ Her doubts seemed so small, so petty now.

  ‘Hey, come on.’ He held her close for a moment. ‘It can’t possibly be that bad.’

  ‘But it is. I thought...’ There really was no easy way to say it. ‘I thought you didn’t want to see me because of the police.’

  ‘The police? What on earth have they to do with this?’

  ‘You were asleep. I could have called them. You thought I might. It was why you didn’t let me go to the corner shop.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. I see.’

  ‘You were right, actually. Though I wasn’t going to call the police. Just Fergus. I thought he could help you.’

  ‘But you didn’t. Even when I was asleep.’

  ‘Are you so sure?’

  ‘The police explained how they found me, about the clothes.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying that.’ He drew back, put a little distance between them. ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one with all the apologies to make, all the questions to answer.’

  Dora kneeled up on the bed and put her arms about his neck. ‘No, John. No doubts. No questions. You’re here now. Nothing else matters.’

  ‘Not even Sophie’s mother?’ He looked down at her. ‘You haven’t asked about her.’

  ‘You’ll tell me if you want to. But you don’t have to—’

  ‘You’ve a right to know.’

  He took her arms from around his neck and for a moment held her hands. Then he let them go, stood up and walked to the window, staring out across the dusty late-summer countryside. She didn’t protest. He had something to get off his chest, and she was happy to listen if it made him feel better. But she’d learned her lesson about being begrudging with her trust. She knew now that honour was something so natural to him that he would never hurt anyone intentionally, even if it meant his own pain.

  She slipped from the bed, pulled on a wrap and curled up on the window seat beneath him, her arms about her knees, waiting patiently for him to unburden himself.

  ‘We were in a cellar,’ he said finally. ‘Just Elena and me. It was chance. We’d never met before, but we’d both run for the same cover when a sniper opened up. I shouldn’t even have been there, but my car had broken down and I’d been trying to get someone to fix it...’ He paused. ‘Normally a sniper doesn’t hang about for long; he’s too easy to pinpoint, too vulnerable. I thought we’d be there an hour or two at the most, but then as night fell the bombardment opened up and we were trapped. It was cold, and there was nothing to burn for heat, but we shared what little food we had. I had some chocolate, some water. She had some bread. She’d been shopping for bread...’

  ‘Come and sit down, John.’ Dora patted the cushioned seat beside her and he turned away from the window. She smiled up at him.

  ‘Don’t!’ He subsided onto the seat beside her, leaning forward to cover her lovely mouth with his hand. ‘Don’t smile at me. Not until you’ve heard it all.’ And only when he was sure that she would obey him did he take his hand away.

  ‘Tell me, then,’ she encouraged. ‘Tell me about Elena. What happened?’ She asked only because he needed to tell her, not because she needed to be told. It was all so obvious. Two people alone in a freezing dark cellar, afraid that any moment a shell would land on top of them, that they were going to die, and offering each other the only comfort they could. He told his story and it was much as she had expected.

  Dora wanted to ask if Elena had been young, pretty. But she resisted the little tug of jealousy. She knew it didn’t matter. What had happened hadn’t been about desire, or love. It had been about need.

  ‘And then it was over and we were still alive. I had a story to file and she had a family to find, somewhere, if they had survived. We were both in a hurry to be somewhere else, and what had happened...it was just something that happens during a war. But I scribbled my address on a piece of paper and gave it to her. Perhaps even then I had an idea that she might need it.’

  ‘Would you have married her, John?’

  ‘I would have looked after her. I’m going to marry you.’

  ‘Are you?’ The statement certainly had a deliciously determined ring to it. ‘But when? There’s still so much to do. So many more people to help.’

  ‘No more aid convoys, Dora,’ he said urgently. ‘You can’t go back.’

  ‘Because of Sophie? What you did?’

  ‘Because of Sophie,’ he confirmed. ‘And because I love you, Dora.’ He laid his palm against her cheek. ‘Because I cannot live without you.’

  ‘But there are so many other children just like Sophie.’ She looked up at him, willing him to understand that she couldn’t simply walk away. ‘I can’t let them down. They need me.’

  ‘They will have both of us. I’ve already been approached about a book and possibly a television documentary.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful!’

  ‘I’m glad you approve. But it will take time, and together we could raise a lot of money now.’

  ‘Together?’

  ‘You and me and Sophie...’

  ‘We could organise some kind of appeal to help women like Elena and their children,’ she said. ‘Name it after her, perhaps.’

  ‘Or Sophie.’

  ‘Or Sophie,’ she agreed.

  ‘So, Dora. Do I have to go down o
n my knees for an answer?’ Then, as she began to remove the links from his cuffs, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You asked me marry you, John,’ she said, as she slipped the knot of his tie and began to unfasten his shirt buttons. ‘I’m a great believer in actions speaking louder than words. In showing, not telling.’

  ‘Like driving a lorry into a war zone instead of standing about and wringing your hands?’

  She regarded him with a small smile. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

  ‘I’m definitely getting the hang of it,’ he said, and pulled the tie of her silk wrapper so that it fell open. ‘So, what did you have in mind?’ he asked, his golden eyes dark with something much more dangerous than simple curiosity.

  ‘This,’ she said, pushing aside his shirt, running her hands lightly over his chest. ‘I’ve been thinking about nothing else for days. And this.’

  She leaned into him to kiss the deep hollow at the base of his neck, trailing warm kisses over his throat, across his shoulder, nipping at his skin with small, even teeth, delighting in the agonised groan she drew from somewhere deep inside him.

  Then she tilted her head back and looked at him through lowered lashes, her lips parted provocatively. ‘Feel free to join in any time you like,’ she invited. ‘This is a game for two.’

  ‘This is no game, Dora,’ he said, sweeping aside her wrapper to slide his hands about her waist, draw her into the warmth of his body, at last free to let her know how much he wanted her, needed her. ‘This is as serious as it gets. I love you. I think I loved you the moment I first saw you, standing there with Sophie in your arms, so indignant that anyone would have the nerve to break in.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘It wasn’t that. I was just indignant that you would bring a child along with you on your house-breaking sorties...’ She stared at him. ‘But even then I knew you were different, that you were my midnight man, my lover coming to me in the silence of the night. You’re right, John. This is serious. Kiss me, my love. Hold me. Love me and promise me that you won’t ever stop.’

  John Gannon promised. And promised. And promised.

  ‘Daddee!’ Sophie, splashing in the pool, saw her father walking across the terrace and slithered away from Richard, splashing energetically to the steps where he reached down and scooped her up, holding her close, not caring about the fact that she was dripping wet. ‘I can swim,’ she said.

  ‘So I can see,’ he said, laughing, taking the towel Poppy handed him and wrapping it around her, drying her face. ‘Who’s been teaching you all this good stuff?’

  ‘Sophie and Gussie.’

  ‘Gussie?’

  ‘I think she’s referring to me,’ Fergus said, carrying out a tray of glasses and a bottle of champagne. ‘She’s picked it up from the girls, I suppose. They think I don’t know... Where’s Dora?’

  ‘She’ll be down in a minute.’ John Gannon saw the challenge in Fergus Kavanagh’s eyes and met it head on before nodding towards the champagne. ‘Are you just glad that I’m staying for dinner, or is the champagne to celebrate something in particular?’

  ‘The length of time you’ve been upstairs, it had better be something in particular, don’t you think?’ Fergus enquired as he loosened the wire.

  ‘Will a wedding do?’

  Fergus paused to regard him levelly. ‘A wedding? Isn’t that rather sudden? Couldn’t we just have an engagement to be getting along with. A very long engagement.’

  ‘Frankly, Fergus, this has already been the longest week of my entire life. But you’ll have to fight it out with Dora, she seems to be rather keen to get things moving.’

  Perhaps it was fortunate that the champagne cork chose that moment to burst from the bottle, avoiding the need for an answer.

  ‘Fergus!’ They both turned as Dora walked out onto the terrace behind them. She went up to her brother, put her arms about him and kissed him. ‘You’re a darling. Thank you for bringing John home safe. I was sure you didn’t approve, but how could I ever have doubted you?’

  Fergus cleared his throat. ‘Sophie’s here,’ he said. ‘You’re here. Where else would he go?’ But for a small still moment, in the excitement, he regarded John Gannon with a look that warned him never to do anything to hurt his sister. The answer he saw in the other man’s face must have reassured him, because quite suddenly he grinned and began spilling the champagne into the glasses. ‘Come on, everyone, you heard the man. This is a celebration.’

  ‘What’s a silly...a silly...bashun, Gussie?’ Sophie asked.

  Poppy and Dora were unable to look at one another. Richard coughed. No one, but no one, ever called Fergus Kavanagh Gussie to his face. ‘Celebration, poppet. Celebration. We celebrate when something special happens.’ He took the child from John. ‘Grown-ups do it with a drink called champagne. Little tots like you drink...milk.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ Poppy muttered.

  ‘Strawberry milk,’ Fergus elaborated. ‘Or maybe banana milk. With a chocolate biscuit. Come on, we’ll go and ask Mrs Harris if she’s got some for you.’

  ‘You know, I think it’s time Gussie got married,’ Dora said as he disappeared through the French windows, and gave her sister a long look through narrowed eyes, ‘before he settles into the role of universal uncle.’

  ‘Or, worse, starts to breed cats,’ Poppy said, rather too quickly, her hands suddenly protective of her waist.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any danger of cats,’ Dora replied thoughtfully. ‘Besides, he’s allergic to them. So it’ll have to be marriage. I can’t think why we haven’t thought of it before.’

  ‘Surely he’s capable of thinking it for himself,’ John murmured.

  Dora linked her arm in his. ‘Poor Fergus has been so busy looking after us all his life, and doing his best to keep us out of trouble, that he’s never had the time to look for a suitable wife. He’s not the kind of man to stumble across one in a thunderstorm, you see, he’s far too well-organised for that—and what kind of girl would have the temerity to break in to Marlowe Court?’

  ‘Perhaps you two should get together and set about finding one for him,’ Richard suggested. ‘After all, once you’ve found the right girl it won’t take any time at all.’

  ‘Won’t it? Why not?’ John asked.

  Richard grinned. ‘You mean Dora hasn’t told you? Love at first sight is a Kavanagh thing. Once they home in on you there’s no escape. And you know what else has just occurred to me?’

  Dora, John and Poppy waited while he replenished their glasses.

  ‘Well?’ Poppy demanded.

  ‘Nothing much. Except that they say everything comes in threes. And I don’t see any reason why that shouldn’t include weddings. Do you?’ He raised his glass. ‘What shall we drink to?’

  ‘Weddings in general?’ Poppy offered.

  ‘Our wedding in particular,’ suggested John.

  ‘Weddings all round,’ Dora concluded, smiling at the man she loved. ‘And the sooner the better.’

  ISBN : 978-1-4592-5307-0

  HIS LITTLE GIRL

  First North American Publication 1999.

  Copyright © 1998 by Liz Fielding.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or In part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter Invented, Including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the Imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly Inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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