Before the Dawn

by Candace Camp

  Alyssa wrapped her legs tightly around him. The wall was hard behind her back; his shaft was hard and piercingly sweet within her. Philippe groaned and buried his face in her neck, his hips thrusting, pouring out all the suppressed longing and love within him. Alyssa twisted, sinking her nails into his shoulders, a great explosive force building within her, shoving out everything inside her except this hunger, this need…

  Their climax thundered through them, and Philippe cried out. Alyssa shook and held on to Philippe as to the only solidity in a whirlwind.

  Slowly they returned to sanity. Slowly Philippe’s arms eased around her and allowed Alyssa to slide down until her feet touched the floor. His breath rasped above her head. His skin was hot and damp against her. Alyssa stood for a moment within the circle of his arms. She could feel the throbbing of her own tender flesh, the liquid, boneless luxury of fulfillment.

  She realized what she had done. And she cried.

  *****

  Philippe held Alyssa as she sobbed, and she clung to him. He stroked her hair and back, murmuring soft words of love and comfort. “My love, my love, please don’t cry. Shhh. Beloved, please. I never meant to hurt you.”

  He felt drained and replete, physically satisfied as he hadn’t been since he had last lain with Alyssa. But the satisfaction was bitter, robbed of joy. Alyssa hated him, and now she hated herself for making love with him. He knew that she probably felt as if she had betrayed herself and all that she believed in. Why hadn’t he been able to control himself? He had not meant even to kiss her.

  Philippe carried Alyssa to the bed and set her down on it, wrapping the peignoir around her. He looked down on her dark, satiny hair and ran his hand down it tenderly. “There’s been no other woman in this room since you left. The clothes are yours. I bought the gown and robe for you, but I never had the chance to give them to you. If you want to dress, there are some of your clothes in the wardrobe.

  He paused. She said nothing and kept her head averted. He turned away and dressed quickly, heartsick and grim. He glanced back at her. She hadn’t moved from where he placed her. “I’m going out for a while,” Philippe told her. “Please don’t do anything foolish. When I return, we’ll drive down to the country house.”

  After he left the room. Alyssa continued to sit on the bed, staring dully at the floor. She had failed at everything. Dragon—and who knows how many others—were in jail because she had foolishly trusted the wrong man. While they suffered unspeakable torments, she was in the arms of their enemy, returning his kisses with fervor, begging for the fulfillment only he could bring her. She lay down on the bed, weak and drained, wrapped in her misery. Frau Heuser brought her a tray of food, but she didn’t even see her.

  She hated herself. She wanted to die. She had betrayed herself, her friends, her principles. All out of weakness. She loved a wicked man, and she had let her heart rule her.

  But as she lay there, her thoughts began to reach past her misery. Philippe’s parting words were that they were going to the country house. Surely in the country it would be easier to escape. She knew a few people there from her earlier stay; if she could find someone who would take her to a resistance group, she could let them know about Dragon’s capture and Unicorn’s betrayal.

  And that was the important thing, not weeping over the weakness of her body. Alyssa wiped away her tears and went determinedly to the wardrobe. She searched through Philippe’s clothing and at one end found a couple of summer dresses and a skirt and sweater set that she recognized as hers. She remembered leaving them at Philippe’s country house when they parted. There had been too many painful memories attached to them.

  Thoughtfully Alyssa ran her hand down one of the dresses. Why had Philippe kept them? Had he told the truth when he said that no other woman had been in his bedroom since Alyssa? Did he really love her still?

  Alyssa jerked a dress out of the closet and slammed the door shut. What if he did love her? It didn’t change anything; it meant nothing except that even a collaborator was capable of love in some form or other.

  She bathed and dressed and slipped into the silk-and-lace underthings which sat on the counter in the bathroom, still wrapped in tissue from the store. There were new, more comfortable shoes, too, and when she was dressed, she looked more like the woman she had been two years ago than the plain girl who had lived in Paris the past couple of months. But it was an illusion, she thought, as she looked in the mirror. That woman had died long ago, when the Germans marched into Paris.

  Chapter 21

  Philippe did not linger at 84 Avenue Foch. He handed Schlieker the information supposedly given to him by Alyssa, and Schlieker ran his eyes down it, his brows rising. “Most impressive.” He commented, giving Philippe an approving nod.

  “Thank you. Now I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Schlieker leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and resting the tips lightly against his chin. “Certainly.”

  “I would like to keep the woman a few more days. Take her to my country house.”

  A genuine smile spread across Schlieker’s lips. It was the first time he had detected a real weakness for anyone or anything in Philippe; he enjoyed discovering it. “For pleasure?”

  Philippe gave him a smugly male smile. “Of course. Although I think with added time I can entice a few more secrets out of her.”

  “Perhaps you would like to have her permanently?”

  Philippe was startled. “But I thought Herr Gersbach…”

  Schlieker shrugged. “Gersbach can be satisfied with someone else. He’s not particular. Most women bleed and scream about the same.”

  Philippe’s stomach twisted. “It might be amusing to keep her for a while.” He smiled and let his eyes light with amusement. “But I don’t know that I would want any woman permanently, not even one as beautiful as she.”

  “Why don’t we leave it indefinite?”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Will you stay for lunch?”

  “No, if it’s all the same to you. I’d like to get an early start on the drive to the country.”

  “Ah, yes.” Schlieker smirked. “I can see you must get back. Just as well. We picked up a large number of prisoners along with your woman, and I must get back to questioning them. Very stubborn, some of your countrymen.”

  Normally Philippe would have done a little subtle questioning to try to discover whom Schlieker had brought in. But today he was concerned only with Alyssa. He wanted only to get out of town before Gersbach had a chance to protest his superior’s decision. So he shrugged indifferently in response to Schlieker’s statement. “Some men are fools.”

  “Yes.” Schlieker bid Philippe good-bye and watched him leave the office. How very interesting. Michaude seemed quite taken with the girl. Men often made idiots of themselves over a woman; he had seen it many times before. But until now Michaude had shown no signs of falling prey to such madness; Schlieker had begun to think the man as immune as he was himself. But now the little spy had seized his fancy. She wasn’t particularly important, though Schlieker could certainly use the information Michaude had obtained from her. But she could turn out to be very valuable where Michaude was concerned. You never knew when you might need some leverage in dealing with anyone, even a friend.

  Schlieker rose, dismissing Michaude from his mind for the moment, and opened the small door inset in the rear of the room. It opened outward onto a small terrace, and there a man sat on a stone bench, waiting for him. “Come in, Bousquet.”

  The man rose and followed Schlieker into his office. He held his hat in his hand, turning it nervously. Bousquet hated coming to the headquarters building. He was certain that he would be seen there and that it would eventually lead to his discovery. He avoided the Avenue Foch building assiduously, but Schlieker had more or less commanded him to appear there this morning.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Bousquet asked, always more obsequious in
side the headquarters than he was on his own ground. The place made him nervous—and not just because of the risk of being recognized going in or leaving the building.

  Schlieker smiled to himself. He knew how Bousquet reacted to number 84 Avenue Foch. That was why he called him down here periodically. “Please, sit down, Herr Bousquet. I have a slight problem with one of the prisoners. The Dragon. He is very stubborn; he’s told us nothing.”

  Bousquet wondered if Schlieker was blaming him for that. He felt like pointing out that getting a prisoner to talk was the Gestapo’s job, not his. He was responsible only for turning them in. But he said nothing and waited politely.

  “I don’t think he is the Duke himself, but I am positive he knows him. I have to find out his name!”

  “But how can I help?”

  “He is almost through. I am afraid that with more questioning, he will die, and then I will never discover it. He has been completely alone, seen no other prisoners since he was brought in. He has no idea whom we have picked up. I thought if another prisoner were put in the cell, he might confide in him. If he is the only one who knows the Duke’s identity, he might feel it important that another of his kind know who the man is and contact him.”

  “It’s a possibility. But he wouldn’t tell me. He must have realized that it was I who betrayed him.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that you go as yourself. But the man’s sight is not the best right now. And you are a man accustomed to playing a role. Perhaps there is someone in Allegro’s group he might know. Someone you could resemble enough to get by him.”

  Bousquet pursed his lips, thinking. It sounded rather unlikely to him, but he supposed he must play along with Schlieker. “Not Allegro himself. He is too big. Perhaps the one who had been to America. They call him ‘Midnight.’”

  Schlieker sneered. “Such romantic names. Well, this Midnight. Could you imitate him?”

  “If Dragon can’t see well, perhaps. The man is about my size, though his face is narrower. His hair is dark brown; I could dye mine. He has a thin mustache, like this.” He ran his finger across his upper lip. “I can cut my hair a little and comb it over to the side in the fashion he does.” Bousquet closed his eyes, remembering the man. “He has a distinctive walk. I can imitate it. He throws one foot out.”

  “That’s close enough. We will make your face look battered and bloody; that will take care of any differences. How much time will you need to change your appearance?”

  A frisson of fear ran through Bousquet. Exactly how would they make his face look battered? But he kept his voice steady as he answered, “A few hours, that’s all.”

  “Good. Do it.” Schlieker smiled in a way that chilled the other man’s blood. “I will have that name.”

  *****

  The next morning Jessica awoke in a sparkling mood. Yesterday she had lulled Stephen into a feeling of safety with the presence of her family. Today it was time to put the rest of her plan into action. She decided not to change from the cotton nightgown in which she had slept, and pulled a light robe over it. The combination wasn’t exactly sexy or revealing, but just the fact that it was nightwear made it somewhat suggestive. She bounced down to breakfast, smiling.

  Stephen sat at the kitchen table by himself, sipping a cup of coffee, as she had suspected he would be. She knew her family’s habits. He looked up when she entered, and Jessica saw the quick darkening of his eyes before he pasted on a friendly smile. “There’s a pot of oatmeal on the stove. Your mother left it when she and Liz went to town.”

  Jessica made a face and poured herself a cup of tea. “Why did they go to town?” she asked innocently.

  “Volunteer work. Apparently they spend every Saturday rolling bandages or knitting socks or something like that. She said you’d throw together some lunch for us.”

  “I expect I can manage.” Jessica sliced a piece of bread to toast. “Dad out in the fields?”

  “Yeah. Up with the chickens. He was already gone when I came down, but I was awake in time to help Lizzie bring in the eggs.”

  “And no doubt ate them all, too,” Jessica joked. They were alone in the house, just as she’d hoped. She glanced at Stephen and saw the same knowledge in his eyes. He looked away quickly.

  Jessica swallowed and turned back to her toast. She had set up the situation, everything was going according to plan… now it was time to seduce him.

  The only problem was, she hadn’t had any practice at this sort of thing.

  She cleared her throat. “More coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Stephen handed her his cup, and Jessica made sure their fingers grazed each other as she took it. She walked to the counter to pour the coffee, feeling his eyes on her as she moved. Purposely she made her steps slow and languid, prolonging the moment. She returned and leaned over to set the cup down on the table, and she saw his eyes flicker to the neck of her robe, where her shadowed breast were barely visible. She felt her nipples tighten at his gaze and knew that that too, was visible through the soft material.

  They sipped their drinks, looking at each other. Jessica’s eyes were wide and misty, full of promise. He kept thinking about the night he had kissed her and the way she had reacted. Her pleasure. Her eagerness. How she had arched up into him, hot and sweet and hungry. If he reached for her now, would she come to him the same way? Would her mouth open under his and let him drink his fill?

  Slowly, thoughtfully, Jessica ran the tip of her forefinger across her lips. Stephen’s hand open on the table, curled up into a fist. His loins were on fire.

  She reached across the table and ran her thumb across the tight knuckles of his doubled-up fist. “Are you angry with somebody?”

  “I ought to be.” His voice was low and thready. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Touching me, swaying across the room, coming down here wearing a robe that clings to every curve. You’re working at being sexy.”

  Her smile was an invitation and a dare. “How am I doing?”

  “Real well, if what you want is to drive me crazy.”

  Jessica was scared and excited and filled with hope. Her hands shook, and she clasped them together in her lap. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “What I want is for you to finish what you started two weeks ago.”

  He looked away. “Jessica, please…”

  “If you aren’t interested, you only need tell me. I won’t press you. If you don’t want me—“

  “Don’t want you!” Stephen’s voice was explosive and raw with barely suppressed desire. “My God, of course I want you. I can’t think of anything except touching you, kissing you. Last night I couldn’t go to sleep for thinking about you lying in your bed in the next room. I could see your hair all over the pillow, your skin in the moonlight, your body in some very ladylike nightgown that would reveal just enough to make me sweat. It seems as if the only way I can keep from taking you is to stay away from you altogether.”

  “Why do you have to keep from it?” Jessica returned bluntly.

  “You’re Alan’s wife!” he bit out, the lines of strain around his mouth and eyes deepening.

  “That’s all I am to you? Alan’s wife? Not a person in my own right?”

  “No, of course that’s not all you are to me.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Quit living because Alan died? Would you like for me to immolate myself on my husband’s bier?”

  “For God’s sake, Jessica!” He ran a hand distractedly through his hair.

  “Am I not entitled to my own life?”

  “Yes!” he burst out. “I want you to have it! But I’m not the man to live it with you.”

  Jessica rose and went around the table to him, her heart aching. He looked so troubled and torn, and she couldn’t understand the depth of his misery. Softly she ran her hand across his hair and down his cheek. “I don’t have any choice, Stephen. I love you.”

  “J
essica!” The word was a low cry of pain. His arms went around her tightly, and he buried his head in her breasts, wanting her comfort, wanting her. “Oh, Jess, I love you too.”

  She kissed the top of his head. “I don’t understand. Why—“

  “Because, damn it!” He jerked away and jumped to his feet. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he crossed the room. She was forcing him to reveal it, making him say why he was riddled with guilt each time he looked at her, why he was the man she should hate instead of love. The thing he’d been too cowardly to tell her—too hungry for her friendship.

  Finally Stephen turned to look at her. His eyes were tortured. “Because I killed your husband.”

  Jessica’s breath stopped. Her mind was blank. She felt as if everything had frozen. She sat down in the chair Stephen had just vacated; her knees were too shaky to stand. “What?” Her voice came out thin and remote.

  “I killed Alan.”

  “You shot him?” Her mind was a jumble; she couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t put it together.

  “No. No. Not like that.” He gripped the edge of the counter tightly. “I—it was my fault he was killed. When we broke them out and I took Alan and two other guys, I figured he was my death warrant. His physical condition wasn’t good. He’d had pneumonia the winter before, and his chest hadn’t really recovered. He had a cough, and he was thin, under-nourished. Couldn’t speak a word of German and had an absolutely atrocious French accent.”

  A watery little chuckle escaped. “He was terrible at languages; he thought everyone should speak English.”

  Stephen smiled faintly. “Yeah. And he had that limp way of talking that some upper-crust Englishmen have, like they’ve never done anything tougher than knock a croquet ball around a lawn. I thought he would be useless, a hindrance. But through it all—the snow and the mud and the hiding, walking until I thought our feet would fall off, sleeping in barns and out in the open, starving all the time—he never complained. And he never stopped. One of the other men died. The other one gave up and went back to surrender. But Alan kept plugging along, bad cough and all. I realized he was tough as an old boot and braver than I was. He wanted so desperately to come home to you. I was almost jealous of him for the love he had with you.”