Before the Dawn

by Candace Camp

  She felt the almost imperceptible stiffening of Philippe’s body, but his voice was breezy as he responded, “Ah, but you see, I know the lady from some time back. We are old friends, and Albrecht agreed that I would be able to get more information from her than anyone else.” Philippe’s forefinger ran a lazy circle down her shoulder, grazing the upper part of her breast and Alyssa was humiliated by the way her body responded to his touch.

  “And I can get it in a much shorter period of time,” Philippe went on smugly.

  Gersbach’s tongue crept out and wet his lips as he stared avidly at Alyssa’s breasts. “I will get it out of her. She’s mine.”

  Philippe pulled a slip of paper from a pocket and extended it to the other man. “As you can see, Albrecht has given her to me. Now, unless you care for an omelet, may I suggest you leave so that I can begin, ah, retrieving information from our prisoner?”

  Gersbach glared at him, and Alyssa thought he would have liked to crush Philippe between his meaty fists, but obviously Philippe’s paper was more powerful than he was, and he backed down grudgingly. “You better get something from her quickly,” he growled. “I’ll talk to Schlieker about this. If you don’t have the information from her by tomorrow, it will be my turn with her.”

  Philippe smiled and replied carelessly, “Oh, I’ll get the information all right, but then she’s yours. You know I don’t mind sharing with my friends.”

  Gersbach cast a last, lascivious look at Alyssa before he turned on his heel and left the room. His men followed. Philippe closed the door and returned to Alyssa. She began to tremble all over. Philippe pulled her up from the chair and wrapped his arms around her. He bent his head, and Alyssa felt the soft rush of his breath against her ear as he whispered, “It’s all right. I won’t let him have you.”

  Alyssa clung to him, warmed and strengthened by his hard body and powerful arms, for a moment floating in a delicious haze of security. Suddenly she realized what she was doing, that she was holding on to Philippe as if to a rock, believing him, trusting him. She broke out of his arms, aghast at her own actions. “Oh, really? Until you decide to ‘share’ me with your friends, at least.”

  Philippe grimaced and moved toward her, but Alyssa backed up quickly. “Is that part of your plan to get me to talk? Did you arrange for that brute to charge in here so that I would feel grateful and trusting?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “You’re the one who’s absurd if you think you can get information out of me with sweet words and lovemaking. I got over you a long time ago.”

  Philippe cocked an eyebrow, and his voice registered mild amusement. “Did you now?” He shrugged off his jacked and tossed it across the chair, then loosened and stripped off his tie. It followed the coat onto the chair, and he sat on the bed to remove his shoes and socks. He stood and folded down the covers of the bed before he unfastened his cuff links and tossed them onto the bedside table. He unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes fixed unswervingly on her, and took it off. Alyssa looked away. His body was lean and powerful; she still felt an elemental pull of desire at the sight of him. But she would not let that affect her. He was her enemy.

  She glanced back at Philippe and saw that his eyes were ablaze with the familiar heat of his desire. He wanted her. She knew what he would do, how he would touch her. Kiss her. Take her to the trembling heights of passion. Alyssa felt herself begin to melt, but that was more dangerous than any threat. She knew, with a sick hunger, that she had never really gotten over Philippe, hard as she had tried for two years. It would take very little to bring her back under his spell, to fill her up with love for him. If that happened, he would have an unholy power over her. She couldn’t risk that. She simply couldn’t.

  An almost unbearable hunger rose in Philippe as he looked at Alyssa. He wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and feel her warmth seep into all the dark, cold places that had grown in him these past years. He ached to tell her everything and see the love for him that had once lain there shine again in her face. But that was the most dangerous thing he could do.

  He couldn’t let her know how much she meant to him, couldn’t show her what lay beneath the cold façade he’d built around himself. The slightest change in her demeanor toward him, the least suggestion that she knew he was not the man he pretended to be would arouse the suspicions of the guards and spies who posed as his servants.

  At the very least, if they guessed she was important to him, it would place him firmly under their thumb; any threat to her would keep him in line. An even worse possibility was that it would set Schlieker to wondering whether Philippe was truly the man he pretended to be. Schlieker was a suspicious bastard to begin with. They would torture Alyssa to get the truth from her. Hell, they would torture her to get the truth from him.

  If he let down his guard with her, he would put not only Alyssa and himself in danger, he would jeopardize the entire operation for which he had sacrificed his love. It was imperative that Alyssa continue to believe he was the enemy.

  He turned away. “Undress and get into bed.”

  “Wh-What?” Alyssa’s voice faltered, and she moved further away from him.

  He hated the fear and disgust in her eyes, but it would ruin the entire charade if Frau Heuser walked in to find his captive not naked and in bed. He cocked an eyebrow and said, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  But he turned his back to her. Behind him he could hear the soft slide of her belt untying, the silky swish as her dressing gown fell to the floor, the creak of the springs as she climbed into bed. It was almost as torturous as watching her.

  He went to the door and flipped the lock, then turned back to the bed, where Alyssa lay, covers pulled up to her chin, glaring at him. Her fierce expression made him smile. “What a fire-eater you are.”

  He stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, looking down at her. He gazed at the soft bow of her mouth, the curve of her cheek, the shadow of her lashes against her skin. How beautiful she was. More than beautiful. She had wit, character, courage. She infuriated him. She delighted him. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and tell her how proud he was of her, how much he loved her.

  What he said was, “Go to sleep. I imagine your night wasn’t too restful.”

  Philippe walked around to the other side of the bed and messed up the pillow and sheets with his hands. He had to at least make it look like he had been in bed with his captive. Taking a smoking jacket from the wardrobe, he pulled it on and went to the desk on the far side of the room. There, he turned on a low light and picked up a notebook and pen.

  Alyssa shot straight up in bed. “You never meant to take me, did you?”

  He twisted around in the chair to look at her. She seemed almost disappointed, and he couldn’t keep a smile from his lips. “Did you want me to?”

  “Of course not! I’d rather sleep with a… a snake than with you. But you were cruel to make me think that.”

  He wanted to tell her that he had to behave this way. That things had to appear just so or the whole operation would fall apart. But he couldn’t. “It was the only way I could think of to get you to shut up and get in bed.”

  “Then how do you plan to get information from me for your friends? Don’t think that kindness will make me talk.”

  “Heaven forbid that kindness should influence you.” Philippe laughed. “Now, please, go to sleep.”

  Alyssa lay back down and rolled over onto her side, facing away from Philippe. Within moments her breathing had slowed to such a pace that Philippe knew she was asleep. He turned his mind to what he had to do. He must send Mother the message that anything from Alyssa was phony. Knowing Ian, he’d manage to turn that to his advantage.

  Philippe jotted down a few things he could give Schlieker, pretending they came from Alyssa. There was some false information he’d been wanting to feed them. He could intermingle it with bits of information that were real but relatively unimportant or which Sch
lieker would soon discover anyway.

  He could provide more authenticity by giving them Alyssa’s history. Georges was already on his way to the country today to set things up, and she’d be far out of their reach before Schlieker could use the knowledge. Besides, Philippe wanted the Gestapo to know all about Alyssa, for then headquarters wouldn’t even consider sending her back to France.

  Philippe rose and walked over to the bed to gaze at Alyssa’s sleeping form. He desired her with all the aching hunger he’d ever known. She was the one real, pure thing in his life. He wanted desperately to hold her, to feel her skin and mouth pressed against his, hoping that making love to her would wash him clean. Afraid that it would stain her with his dirt. If only he could have her love again… If only she would look at him in the same shining way she once had. Move her hands lovingly across his flesh. Murmur joyous sounds of pleasure at his touch. Then, perhaps, he could be whole again.

  But it would never happen. Philippe bent and brushed his lips against her forehead and walked away.

  Chapter 20

  Jessica didn’t see Stephen for a fortnight after they almost made love. When she went to London on leave the next time, he neither called nor came by. She was lonely and hurt, and she didn’t understand what had caused his sudden desertion. He’d wanted her; she knew she couldn’t be mistaken about that. But when he saw Alan’s picture in her bedroom, he ran away, his only reason being that she was Alan’s wife. Did her passion for another man only months after Alan’s death disgust him? Did he think her cheap because of that? Or was Alan’s memory so close to him that he felt he was committing adultery, even with Alan dead?

  It was unfair! She had loved Alan, and she had cried bitter tears over him. The past two years her world had been gray without him. But at last she started to feel again, to be happy and alive. To love again. Yet Stephen seemed to want to keep her immured in her widow’s weeds, locked in the dreary suffering of mourning. But she was more than just Alan’s widow. She was a person in her own right, a woman with the same needs and feelings anyone else. Why couldn’t he accept her as herself instead of as an appendage of Alan?

  She told herself to forget Stephen, that there was no possibility of anything between them. She would have to start to live again on her own, perhaps find someone else who wanted her without connecting her to her dead husband. But even at the idea, her tears would start, and she realized with a kind of horror that she was grieving again—this time over Stephen Marek. She missed him; she wanted him; life was lonely and bleak without him. She had fooled herself when she thought she was only halfway to loving him. She was already there. She loved him, and already she had lost him.

  But Jessica had never been one to give up. She remembered how she had had to jolt Alan into acknowledging his love for her, and the memory made her smile through her tears. Perhaps she was doomed to want men who required a push.

  She wiped away her tears and sat down to think, her chin thrust forward in determination. It wasn’t all that bad, really. Nothing to cry over. Stephen wasn’t completely lost to her as Alan had been. He was alive, and it was possible to bring him back to her. It would simply require some effort on her part.

  After a few moments of thought, Jessica went downstairs and called the house in Kensington where Stephen lived. Another American answered the phone and was inclined to linger talking to her himself, but at last she laughingly persuaded him to bring Stephen to the phone. She could hear the trepidation in his voice when he answered, but she started out blithely, as though nothing had happened between them. “Stephen. It’s Jessica. How are you?”

  “All right.” He hesitated, then went on almost as if against his will. “How about you? Are you okay?”

  “Perfectly all right. I called to issue an invitation. I have a three-day leave next weekend, and I thought I’d run down to Chilton Dean to see my parents. Perhaps you’d like to come. They’d love to see you again; Mum always mentions you in her letters.”

  On the other end of the line, Stephen gripped the phone so hard it turned his knuckles white. He shouldn’t go. He shouldn’t expose himself to the temptation. She was Alan’s wife. She would hate him if she knew what really had happened. I can’t. That’s what he should say, and then it would be over. Jessica was too much of a lady to call him again.

  But he had almost gone crazy the past couple of weeks without seeing her. He thought about her constantly, and the only way he had avoided calling her when she was on leave last week was to go with one of the men in his house on a sightseeing jaunt to York. He’d hated every minute of the trip, and all he could think of was Jessica and how she must be hurt at his avoidance of her. He ached to see her; just hearing her voice across the telephone wire made his pulse race.

  “Stephen? Are you there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry, just working out my schedule. I’d love to come.”

  Jessica broke into a grin, but kept her voice carefully steady. “Good. Shall we just meet there? You know the way.”

  “Yes, that’s fine. Tell me when your train gets in, and I’ll meet it.”

  “Friday afternoon, three forty-five.”

  “I’ll be there.” They said good-bye, and Stephen hung up, calling himself a fool and feeling happier than he had in two weeks.

  It didn’t take too much maneuvering to obtain an extra day off the next weekend, and Stephen managed to catch an earlier train than Jessica so he could be there waiting when she arrived at the station. Jessica saw him standing on the platform as the train pulled in, handsome and dark in his olive-green uniform, and her heart gave a leap. She wanted to run from the train straight into his arms. She wondered what he would have done if she had.

  Instead, she exited demurely, crisp in a pale blue suit, a cunning straw hat with a half-veil shadowing her eyes. She smiled at Stephen, extending her hand to him. He could have shaken it and let it go, but instead he curled his hand around hers, holding it, and grabbed her small bag with his other hand. If Jessica had had any doubts about his interest in her, they were resolved by the bright flame in his eyes and the broad grin that covered his face.

  They walked toward the stairs up to the depot. Stephen couldn’t make himself let go of her hand nor could he stop his thumb from caressing the back of her hand in lazy circles. He felt as if he could consume her, just looking at her. “How are you? How was the trip?”

  “Fine—to both.”

  Upstairs he retrieved his duffel bag and carried it as well as her suitcase, but he managed not to let go of her hand. Jessica laced her fingers through his and smiled sunnily. They started home to Malthouse Farm on foot, enjoying the walk on the sunny summer day and enjoying each other’s company even more. But a short distance out of the village, a Land Army girl driving a horse-drawn wagon stopped to give them a ride. Jessica was amazed to see that she was the local solicitor’s daughter.

  The girl laughed when she saw Jessica’s expression. “Yes, it’s I. Things have changed here, just as they have in the City.”

  Stephen helped Jessica into the high old wagon, and they rumbled off slowly. “How do you like doing this?” Jessica asked.

  The girl smiled. “I’m quite enjoying it, actually. Terrible thing to feel the war’s done you a favor, but, frankly, I’ve always wanted to farm. Of course, it was out of the question before. Now even Father accepts it because it’s patriotic. Don’t know what I’ll do when it’s over.”

  She set them down at the narrow lane leading to the farmhouse. They only walked a short distance before the front door opened and Jessica’s sister tumbled out, running toward them.

  “Stephen! Jessica!” Jessica suspected her name was an afterthought. Lizzie clearly had a crush on Stephen. She was fourteen and as gangly as Jessica remembered being at her age, all arms and legs and no shape to speak of yet. Her fair hair was in braids, wisps escaping around her face, and she wore a faded blue cotton frock, belted tightly to her thin form. Her skin was as fair as Jessica’s and show
ed her excitement in its high color. A line of freckles crossed her nose and cheeks.

  Jessica smiled. Liz was the baby of the family, dear to them all, a madcap, a forgetful rusher, but kind of heart. If it hadn’t been for the war, she would have been leaving soon for boarding school in Switzerland, as Jessica had, to acquire some polish. Jessica wondered what would happen to Liz. Because of the war, she would be knowledgeable in ways Jessica had never thought of being and lacking much of what had been considered so important before the war.

  Jessica hugged her sister, and Stephen delighted the girl by picking her up and swinging her around before planting a kiss on her forehead. Liz talked and laughed excitedly as they walked to the house, where Jessica’s mother, Vivian, stood waiting to greet them. Again there were hugs all around, and Stephen took their bags up to the second floor, bending his head on the stairs to avoid hitting the ceiling. Their home was a fifteenth century half-timbered farmhouse without a level floor or straight door in it, and on the stairs and in some of the upper rooms anyone taller than Jessica couldn’t stand upright.

  The family was with them the rest of the day, buffering them as Jessica had planned they would, so that she and Stephen were able to be together with little of the tension that would have sprung up in a more intimate setting. What she hadn’t planned on was that watching Stephen here with her parents and sister, she would fall more in love with him by the minute. Patting the aging Irish Setter, teasing Lizzie, carrying in the meat platter for Mum, playing checkers with her father before the fire—he was such a perfect part of the picture that it made her heart ache. It was amazing to think how many thousands of miles apart they had grown up, yet how easily he fit into her life.

  That night, as she dressed for bed in the room that had been hers from childhood, she thought of Stephen in the room next door. Removing his clothes, slipping into bed. She thought of his skin gleaming in the low light, his firm chest and long, slender legs. She had seen him once or twice in hospital in only his T-shirt and pajamas but never in less. A warm, steady throbbing started low in her abdomen as she imagined how he would look completely naked.