Twenty minutes. The restlessness grew stronger. She had grown up in the roughest part of London and had fended off bullies all her life. What could Etaples throw at her that she hadn’t already faced in the streets?
She glanced at her wristwatch, shrugged off her blood-stained apron then stuffed it into her pocket. Twenty minutes. It was half-past eight now. She could walk to the nearest section of camp, toward the train, and be back before curfew. The train’s whistle sounded again, and at its call, Eleanor stepped out into the darkness.
MALCOLM’S EYES DRILLED into Will’s back. He stood stiffly, arms folded across his chest, determined to ignore the tub of greasy dishes in front of him. “You know this is all your fault.”
Will ignored this jibe as he had ignored all of Malcom’s complaints since they had entered the kitchen a half-hour ago. Grinding his molars together, Malcolm weighed his options. He could give Will a black eye for landing them both in this predicament. Thomas had insisted on boxing lessons from childhood and Malcolm was quite a skilled pugilist. But, while punching Will was appealing, it would not solve the more immediate problem—the pile of dirty dishes.
If he could just get Will to agree to wash his share as well... “You know, if you hadn’t gone off on Stewart like you did we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Will straightened and tossed his sudsy hand-towel onto a wooden countertop as he turned around. Malcolm smirked. A reaction at last. This was encouraging.
“You don’t know how to wash dishes.” It was a statement, not a question, and the sneer melted from Malcom’s lips like a snowball on a hot stove. “You’ve never washed a dish in your life.”
“W-what do you mean?” Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck.
“You’re a rich brat whose servants probably took care of everything.”
Malcolm recovered quickly. It was like boxing after all, except they were using words instead of fists—at least for the moment. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Two things give you away.” Will flicked two thick sudsy fingers upward, sending droplets of soapy water on Malcom’s face. “One: only a rich, arrogant brat would challenge his commanding officer to a card game.”
“I didn’t—”
“Second,” Will ignored him, “you’re ridiculously disgusted by dirty dishes. We’re not leaving here until they’re clean and you know that. So, either you expect me to do your work for you—which again shows you up—or you’re so afraid of grime that you’re hoping the dishes will magically go away on their own.”
He closed the gap between them in two long-legged strides and shoved his face inches from Malcolm’s. “Either way... you’re dreaming.”
Malcom’s jaw closed with an audible click but he reigned in his rapidly dissipating temper. This is how he wants to fight? So be it.
“I can tell you what happened in the East End of London.”
“What?” Will stared at him and Malcom’s leer returned.
“I was there. In the East End. I can tell you exactly what happened.”
Will recoiled. “And in exchange you want me to do your work? Is that the kind of man you are?”
Malcolm’s eyes gleamed. “‘You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’, to quote the Americans.” Perhaps it was cruel to prey upon Will’s emotions but life was all about survival of the fittest, wasn’t it? If word got out that he had been born to wealth, the men in his cohort would despise him never giving him the chance that he needed to surpass his father’s reputation.
They could never know the full truth. They would never believe that he had been disinherited and expelled from his ancestral home. They would only know that the pampered little brat next to them was born to wealth and power.
“You sicken me.” Will stared at him with cold eyes.
“Believe me, peasant, the feeling’s quite mutual.” Malcom’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “But if you want to know the details, you’ll have to agree to my terms.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth? My wife and child were there and now they’re missing. I have no time for these stupid games!”
“Stupid?” Malcom barked out a laugh. “My future is neither of those and that’s exactly what’s at stake. As to the truth, well, you’ll just have to trust me.” Malcolm handed Will his own dry sponge. “But if you don’t do as I say, you’ll never know what happened, now will you?”
Will grabbed the cloth from his hand and pulled the first dirty dish from the pile. “Start talking.”
“When you’re all done.” Malcolm yawned and stretched. “I’ll go out and catch some of the night air. I’ll be back in... shall we say one hour?”
Will’s eyes narrowed to crinkled slits but he only nodded and scrubbed at the dish in his hand with renewed energy. “You’re a devil. But if you want dishes in exchange for news, well, that’s a small enough price to pay.”
SHE EASED FORWARD, keeping to the shadows while taking note of every visible face. Not one resembled the man she loved. The yellow light from the street lamps failed to dispel the gloom and Eleanor tripped over discarded debris more than once. Everywhere, men skulked about, eyes darting left and right, as though the darkness itself might give birth to their enemy. Rows of hospitals crammed one side of the streets—if the narrow, filthy paths could indeed be called streets—while officer and nurse quarters lined the other side.
Eleanor turned off the main road, down a murky alley which she had previously used as a shortcut to the depot. The alley was empty and she quickened her pace, determined to cover as much ground as she could before her time was up. Storage buildings loomed over the narrow path like sentinels in the night. It occurred to her that what she was doing was futile, even dangerous, but she shoved the thought aside. Her only option was to stumble around in the darkness, praying that God would somehow reunite her with the husband she loved more than life.
She froze as a rasping chuckle bounced off the walls of one of the buildings.
“Was she worth the money, John?”
“Every penny. Next time you go, ask for Yvette. You’ll never forget her.”
Eleanor shrank into the frame of a nearby door as the voices, slurred and boisterous, reached her ears from around the corner. Judging by their bawdy dialogue, the men had just come from the brothels that lay just outside the military base.
The heavy tread of booted feet, used to long marches, mirrored the wild galloping of her heart. She groped for the door’s handle. Locked! There was nowhere to hide. She thought of running but, just as her muscles tensed for the first motion, the first of the pair rounded the corner.
Her body melted into the doorway. Maybe they wouldn’t notice her. Perhaps they’d pass her by—
“What’ve we got here?”
Hope vanished like a shooting star. She stared into the scruffy face of a rawboned soldier whose eyes raked her with undisguised lust.
“Hey, John.” He edged closer, claws outstretched. The stench of stale beer on his breath made her gag.
“Looks like we found a real winner Rob.” His smaller companion whistled approvingly as he came closer. “Forget Yvette, I’ll take this one—and for free too.”
The hair on Eleanor’s back bristled as they pressed still closer, trying to pin her between their bodies and the door. If that happened, she was finished. Her breath came in short bursts as she clenched her moist hands into wadded balls. They’re no different than the thugs at home, Eleanor. But they were different. These weren’t soft-bellied drunks who could be belted off with a few blows and yells. These were soldiers, trained to kill in their sleep.
She shoved the frightening thought from her mind and focused on the big one. John. That was his name.
Whenever you’re in trouble, do the unexpected. Will had taught her that. Will. If these men had their way she might not live to see him again. Anger smoldered in her heart, elbowing past her fear. The man before her threw her a cocky wink and toothy smile.
He doesn�
��t expect a fight. The thought brought an idea born of desperation. John’s hand was outstretched, about to paw at her breasts, when Eleanor exploded out of her half-crouch. She gripped his wrist with both hands then heaved him forward with all her might while swinging her body to one side.
John howled in surprise and pain as he crashed, headfirst, against the wooden door. Eleanor didn’t look back; she knew that he’d be on his feet within seconds, furious and humiliated. A few seconds. I just need a few more seconds. She focused on the second man, Rob, who stared at her bug-eyed and slack-jawed. Eleanor didn’t give him a chance to react.
She leaped forward, hands balled into a tight fist, and she threw her weight into the lunge. In her weeks of helping nurses, she had learned where to find the solar plexus. When he fell backward gasping, she knew that her blow had hit home. The shorter man staggered, face contorted by pain and, before he could recover, she jerked her skirt upward and swung her leg into his groin, screaming with all her might.
Rob crashed to the muddy ground and lay there, writhing as his wails filled the night sky. Hope flared once again and she pivoted to run. She couldn’t be found here. Even though it was obvious that she had been attacked, her reputation as a VAD would be ruined. Only Veronica would believe that she had gone lurking about in the dark looking for her husband.
Eleanor’s feet hammered the dirt road. She had to get out of here. She had taken five steps when a brutal hand latched onto her wrist and jerked her to a painful halt.
The lanky soldier’s face turned crimson as he pulled her closer with a vicious yank. “Come here!” His bestial roar made the blood drain from her face.
Eleanor slammed her eyes shut. God no. Please, not this!
Instinct seized control of her mind. She struggled, scraping and pummeling him with every ounce of her strength but, even in his drunken stupor, he easily overpowered her.
“No!” A ragged sob erupted from her throat.
John’s raw laugh cut through the night. He slipped his leg behind her and pushed backward, tripping her neatly onto the ground. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
Drops of his saliva landed on her contorted face. His grip of iron pinned her wrists against the hard ground and, as his pockmarked face and fetid breath obscured her vision, Eleanor screamed.
MALCOLM SIGHED WITH content as he let the door of the mess hall’s kitchen swing shut behind him. He had delivered the knockout blow that would earn him a night of freedom while Will slaved away. The taste of victory was indeed sweet.
He ambled down the road toward the train depot, stepping around the puddles of filth that obstructed his path. The night air held a hint of rain. The area around the canteen was largely deserted as most men at this time were either in the barracks writing letters to home or lost in the arms of a village prostitute.
The thought sparked an unwelcome memory—that of his wife in the arms of a soldier outside a London pub. Leila. Malcom’s lips twisted as if he’d suddenly bit into a lemon rind. After three weeks, the hurt still boiled inside him like a living thing. In his mind, Leila had morphed into a feminine extension of Thomas. To both he was a disappointment—a failure of a man who could never rise to their lofty expectations. Thomas would swap him out for another son without a second thought and Leila—well, she had already traded him for another man, hadn’t she?
His face darkened, and he picked up speed. In two days he left for the Front. Some shunned the thought of conflict, but he embraced it. It was there, on the battlefield, that he would show the world the true greatness of his soul. When he returned to Britain as a decorated hero, Thomas would beg his forgiveness. For his part, Malcolm would coldly shun the reprobate who had sired then denied him.
As for Leila—his fingers bunched into twin balls of iron—she would call herself every kind of a fool for choosing some lowly trooper instead of her husband, the man who had become greater than the legendary general, Sir Thomas Steele.
His breath came in short bursts and Malcolm realized that he was running. He had been so focused on his future that he had unconsciously turned off the main road and now found himself halfway down a dark alley.
Blinking rapidly, he glanced around him, trying to determine his location. Looming buildings lined both sides of the narrow passage but at the other end he spied a streetlight.
He had just turned a corner when a woman’s piercing scream made him pull up short. Leaning against the closest building, he shuffled forward and craned his neck around its edge.
The towering light from the far end of the street spilled over into this part of the alley. His eyes narrowed as he saw a rawboned fighter grabbing a fleeing woman’s wrist. Another, smaller man, bawled while writhing on the ground, his hands pressed against his groin.
Malcolm grimaced, distaste souring his mood still further. Obviously, the woman was unwilling but what was she doing out in a dark place alone, in a camp like Etaples? He had only been on the grounds for three weeks but that had been enough to recognize the sullen unruliness and atmosphere of barely subdued defiance among the men.
His lips curled with icy contempt as an image of Leila rose fresh in his mind. Women were all the same, bringing trouble upon themselves and those who loved them. He pulled back, willing to leave the wretch to her fate but, at that moment, the rapist spun the woman around and Malcolm felt the breath leave his lungs.
It’s her! Memories of a grieving mother, wailing as she held the broken body of her daughter blotted everything else from his sight. He had no doubts that this was the same woman—her faith amid sudden grief had made an indelible impression upon him. And now she was about to be wounded again... while he abandoned her.
He licked his lips, considering. Both men appeared to be unarmed but the one on the ground would soon regain his feet. He wasn’t a soldier—at least not one that had seen action—but he was a prize boxer.
“I’m going to enjoy this!” The savage note of unbridled lust in the rapist’s voice made his pulse spike. Maybe other women deserved what they got but this one did not.
Stepping into the light, he sprinted over to the groaning man and slammed his fist into his temple. With a sickening thunk, the prostrate man slumped backward—unconscious.
The assailant was so engrossed in his struggling prey that he didn’t hear Malcom’s stormy approach.
“Get off her!” Malcolm grabbed his shoulder and shoved him roughly to one side.
He lay there only for an instant before leaping to his feet, limbering up his shoulders and neck. “I’ll kill you!”
His opponent rushed forward, eyes burning and nostrils flared. He jabbed out with his fist but, leaning backward, Malcolm side-stepped him. He swung again, a vicious blow that could have done some damage had it landed, but again Malcolm danced just out of range.
With a strangled cry, the man rushed forward. Malcolm planted his right foot slightly behind his left. He bent his knees and made his body supple then, with practiced ease, feinted left. As expected, his adversary turned to block the blow but Malcolm twisted viciously from his waist and slammed his right fist into his opponent’s nose. The bone fractured with a satisfying crunch.
A savage howl bounced off the nearby buildings but Malcolm cut it short with a flat chop to the throat.
A ragged, choking cough ripped out of the man’s throat and he slumped to his knees, blood streaming from his smashed snout. At the third punch, his enemy’s eyes glazed over and he slumped forward, falling face down at Malcom’s feet.
ELEANOR HAD SCRAMBLED to her feet the instant John was wrenched off her prostrate body. She watched, stupefied, as the intruder pounded her erstwhile rapist into the ground with a finesse unlike anything she had ever seen. This was not street fighting—the kind that chopped, clawed, and bit at every exposed part of the enemy. This was a man who dispatched blows like a clerk distributing tickets in the London Tube. It was cold, impersonal... frightening.
Something about him tugged at the corners of her memory, as though he were s
omeone she should know... but didn’t. She thought to flee—he could be another lust-ridden man trolling for a victim— but the fight ended as quickly and brutally as it had begun. The thunk of an unconscious body hitting ground unhinged the door to the pent-up tension that had kept her body rigid.
Eleanor stumbled to the protective embrace of the brick wall and leaned against it as her entire body began to shake. She sucked air into her lungs as though she were a drowning man who had managed to swim to shore.
“Are you alright?”
Eleanor thrust herself from the wall and backed away, her motions quick and jerky like rusty cogs on a wheel.
“I’m fine. S-stay back!”
He frowned, obviously disturbed to realize that she feared him as much as those who had assaulted her only moments before.
“Don’t be afraid.” He touched his chest. “I’m Malcolm. Do you remember me?”
She licked her lips. Again, a vague memory teased her but she shook her head. “Eleanor.”
“Eleanor?” He rubbed a hand over the dark stubble on his face and opened his mouth as though about to say more but clamped it shut.
Her eyes skittered to the two men who seemed more dead than alive. With a few skilled blows he had eliminated the threat. What could he do to her?
“T-thank you.” She jerked her chin to the prone figures.
He shrugged. “Think nothing of it.”
“I-I’d better go.”
Again, his mouth opened as though he wished to speak but he clamped his jaw shut with a terse nod. Her eyes shifted from him to the two men once more. She pivoted on unsteady feet and, glancing repeatedly over her shoulder, scurried to the end of the alley and back into the light.
MALCOLM SHIFTED ON his feet as he watched her go. A gentleman would offer to see her home... but he was no gentleman. A thousand questions buzzed like wasps in his mind, but he could sum them all into one word: why? Why was she here, alone in the night? He frowned, trying to understand what had caused him to intervene.
In the Shadow of Your Wings Page 11
