Never Forget Me

by Marguerite Kaye - Never Forget Me

  She turned onto the Rue de Buci, her heart thudding in her chest. It was not yet twelve-thirty, but there was already a smattering of people drinking aperitifs at the cluster of little tables under the red awning. Sylvie sat down with her back against the café’s long glass doors and ordered a kir. The glass clattered on the table as she set it down, but the cold, sharp wine and fruity cassis calmed her a little. She closed her eyes, trying to compose herself, for already her mind was flying in a myriad of directions, telling her that he wouldn’t come, that his train would be late, his leave cancelled yet again, that he had been wounded, or worse. Would she get a telegram? But they only sent telegrams to family, and she was not family. Unless Robbie had specified— But then, why would he?

  His last letter had intimated things had quieted down. He wasn’t even at the front line, but men were killed in accidents behind the lines all the time. No, she was being ridiculous; he had been alive yesterday, remember? He’d sent the telegram telling her to meet him here. If he didn’t turn up, it would simply mean that his leave had been cancelled, not anything more sinister. She was desperately trying to rid her mind of the image of his lifeless body lying broken and unattended in a no man’s land when a tap on her shoulder made her jump to her feet with a little yelp.

  ‘Sylvie, I didn’t mean to startle you—you’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘You’re here!’ She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms tight around his neck. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, pressing herself tight against him, oblivious to the stares of the other customers and the sardonic smile of the haughty waiter hovering by the doorway. ‘You’re really here,’ she whispered, fluttering her fingers over the nape of his neck.

  His arms were tight around her waist. ‘Of course I am, silly,’ he said, his voice husky with emotion. ‘Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.’

  ‘Oui, moi aussi.’

  ‘You’ve got a new coat. It suits you.’

  She touched his cheek. ‘Your scar has healed.’

  He tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘You’re so lovely it takes my breath away.’

  She ran her fingers along his jaw. ‘I’ve missed you so much, Robbie.’

  He kissed her forehead. ‘Moi aussi, Sylvie.’

  She linked her arms around his waist and pulled him closer, running her hands over the breadth of his shoulders. ‘How long do we have?’

  Robbie smiled. ‘Two whole days,’ he said, and kissed her.

  Not a polite Parisian kiss on both cheeks, but one where their lips melded and they clung to each other for many seconds before he pulled away. ‘I don’t have to work,’ Sylvie said, already breathless, her blood already heating. ‘We can spend the whole time together, if you want?’ she said, though it wasn’t really a question. All her doubts had vanished the moment she set eyes on him, the moment he put his arms around her.

  ‘I know exactly what I want, Sylvie Renaud.’ Robbie’s smile was new to her. His mouth was the sensual, teasing curve it was designed to be.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she flushed, but was relieved to note that the waiter was studiously looking elsewhere. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ she asked.

  Robbie nibbled her ear. ‘Extremely. Are you?’

  She felt as if she had been caught up and tossed into the air. She felt as if she had just drunk a large glass of Calvados in a single gulp. She felt... Sylvie laughed, a husky sound she barely recognised, sensual and carefree. ‘Ravenous,’ she said, grabbing her bag from the seat under the little table and throwing some change down. ‘Let’s go.’

  * * *

  Robbie barely registered the journey back to Sylvie’s apartment. They took the Métro. They sat beside each other, thigh to thigh, in the first-class carriage, holding hands. Did they change trains? He couldn’t remember. He studied her profile, fascinated by the shell-like delicacy of her ear, the long line of her elegant neck, the shape of her nose, her jaw. Then she turned in her seat, and they gazed into each other’s eyes like lovelorn adolescents. Her mouth had such a delightful curve. Her eyes were the colour of toffee today and the shadows under them were not so pronounced.

  When she smiled at him like that, he could imagine himself ravishing her there and then. She would sit astride him. He’d hold her by the waist. Her hair would fall over her cheek as she leaned over to kiss him. He’d slide his tongue into her mouth as she took him inside her.

  The train jolted to a halt. Sylvie took his hand. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. Her hand trembled, echoing the rumble of the departing train. He was hard. Just as well he had his greatcoat on. What a preposterous thing to think!

  She led him up the stairs, out into the street. He blinked. He had forgotten it was only just afternoon. He liked that she didn’t try to hide her desire. He was incapable of hiding his. He couldn’t believe he had been so nervous he almost hadn’t come to Paris. Stupid wartime superstitions. It was bad luck to want something too much. War destroyed what was precious. Was Sylvie precious?

  He looked at her profile as they finally turned into the Rue des Martyrs. Best not to dwell on that. Then she smiled at him, that amazingly sensual smile he’d always imagined, so rarely seen, and he slipped his arm around her waist, hurrying her the last few yards, and she laughed and quickened her step, and Robbie thought, I can be happy after all.

  * * *

  At the entrance to her apartment Robbie swept her up in his arms, causing a customer emerging from the pharmacy next door to applaud, and Sylvie laughed, twining her arms around his neck as he climbed the stairs. Her hands shook as she put the key in the lock. Behind her, Robbie was nuzzling her neck. The door burst open and they staggered in. She had laid a fire before she left. She had cleaned the rooms, bought coffee and bread and a small selection of food, which she stored in a box on the window ledge. The room looked so plain. She had never really felt at home here, had never made much of an attempt to make it her own. ‘Flowers,’ she said. ‘I wish I’d thought to buy flowers.’

  ‘You smell of flowers.’ Robbie dropped his kit bag on the floor and pulled her to him. ‘You smell of flowers and Sylvie. I lie in my bunk and close my eyes and I conjure up your scent. Your new coat is very stylish, but would you mind terribly taking it off?’

  She did so, conscious of him watching her, and as he watched her, her confidence began to grow. His eyes, more blue than grey today, were feasting on her. His mouth was still curved into that sensual half smile. In the daylight, there were dark streaks of autumn-red in his hair. ‘Shall I take off my hat, also?’ she asked teasingly.

  ‘I think that might be advisable.’

  ‘And you must take off your coat. And your boots. And those horrible things on your legs.’

  ‘Puttees. Supposed to keep out the damp.’

  ‘Stop the circulation, more like.’ Sylvie dropped her expensive hat onto the sofa. ‘Let me help you,’ she said.

  ‘No, I can...’

  ‘I want to.’ She led him into the bedroom, and knelt before him and began to unlace his boots, then unbuckle the puttees, which were leather, held on with straps. She glanced up at him and smiled, running her fingers over his muscular calves, an unexpectedly slim ankle. She pulled off his socks. They were thick, woollen, rather badly knitted. There was a hole halfway up one, where the stitches had been dropped.

  ‘My mother made them for me,’ he said, seeing her raised brows. ‘I don’t think she’s very good at that sort of thing.’

  Sylvie folded them carefully. ‘Then she must love you very much, to have made such an effort.’ His feet were narrow, the arches high. She stood up and began to unbuckle his polished crossover belt. Then she unbuttoned the brass buttons on his tunic, flattening her palms over the broad sweep of his chest as she eased it from him.

  Robbie kissed her, lifting her almost off her feet. ‘I think you should take something off now. Let me return the favour.’

  She stood motionless as he unfastened her dress, pressing little kisses onto her spine as he u
ndid each button, his fingers warm on her skin as he slid it over her arms.

  Another kiss, deeper than the last, and she removed his trousers carefully over his erection. She was breathing erratically, her skin flushing hot then cold. Another kiss. He cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples into aching hardness with his thumbs. His tongue touched hers, retreated, touched hers. She tugged his undershirt over his head. He kicked off his underwear. She caught her breath, staring unashamedly at his body in the sunlight filtering through the thin curtains. Pale Highland skin, muscles that were so close to the surface she could see them move when he breathed. He was sleekly lithe, his chest smattered with dark auburn hair arrowing down to his belly. Long legs. Strong thighs, like a runner. And...

  Sylvie wrapped her hand around him, relishing the shudder that her touch caused. Silken skin. So hard. She stroked him. He shuddered again, then he kissed her again, and his kiss took her desire and ratcheted it up a notch, so that she was no longer just hot but burning.

  He picked her up and set her down on the bed. He unbuttoned her chemise. It was new, cream coloured to match her knickers. He barely seemed to notice, so intent was he on tasting the skin beneath. He kissed her neck. He kissed her shoulders. He kissed the valley between her breasts, the soft undersides, and then he sucked her nipples. She was moaning, breathing erratically, her fingers plucking at his hair, at his skin, but he would not be hurried.

  He eased her onto her back and pulled off her knickers. Kissing her belly. Kneeling between her legs. Easing them apart. Kissing her thighs, her knees, her ankles as he removed her stockings. Nuzzling the pulse at her ankle. Who would have thought there was so much sensation scattered about her body? Then back up again to the crease at the top of her thighs. Then between her legs, his tongue delicately parting her, delicately delving into her, making her arch up, cry out.

  He pulled her towards him, easing her back down on the bed, and continued his delicious torment. She was climbing, tensing, coiling. His tongue. His fingers. His mouth. She was hot, so hot. And still he licked, stroked, sucked, teased, taking her almost there, letting her fall back again, until she let out a guttural cry and began to climb again, and he sensed there was no stopping her. Her entire body tensed, then seemed to split apart as she climaxed, yet he held her still, bringing it back when it began to ebb again, and then again, until she thought she could not bear any more, and put a restraining hand on the top of his head.

  He was smiling up at her. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and kissed him greedily. His smile faded, desire making his face tense as he slipped on protection. On her back again, her arms still around his waist, finally he entered her. Slowly. Then deeper. She found that there was more she could bear after all, as he began to thrust, each stroke rousing her again in a new way, a different way, reaching deeper, until he, too, got to that unstoppable moment, when he thrust harder, faster, and it took him, too, and Sylvie with him, over, up, over, flying and soaring, to a place where there was only them, and nothing, absolutely nothing else.

  * * *

  They spent the afternoon in bed, making all sorts of love, taking their time, as if there was all the time in the world for their bodies to learn all there was to know about each other. In between, they dozed, talked, kissed. Kisses with no purpose but kissing, Robbie said, and then almost immediately proved himself wrong. They ate the cheese and bread in bed. ‘A naked picnic,’ Robbie said. ‘I’ve never been on one of those before.’

  ‘Have you ever swum naked—maybe in one of your Scottish locks?’

  ‘Lochs.’ Robbie shivered as he corrected her. ‘Trust me Sylvie, the water’s cold enough to ensure that even the sight of you naked on the shore would have no effect whatsoever.’

  ‘What about the sight of me naked in bed?’ she teased, looking at him over the rim of her glass.

  Robbie took it from her, setting it down on the bedside table. ‘Now, that’s a different matter entirely. See for yourself.’

  Sylvie laughed, made utterly brazen in the wild exhilaration of his presence and their lovemaking, sated and at the same time already aroused again. She leaned over him, trailing her breasts on his chest. ‘I think I will,’ she said, and began to kiss her way down his stomach.

  * * *

  That evening they ate in the splendour of Le Grande Véfour near the Palais Royal. The restaurant where Napoleon had taken Josephine to dine was sumptuous, a riot of gilded wood, gold leaf, delicately painted cornicing, plush crimson banquettes, gleaming mirrors and tiled columns depicting various semi-naked gods and goddesses.

  Sylvie, horribly aware that her only evening gown was a very far cry from haute couture, eyed the menu nervously. ‘There are no prices,’ she said.

  Robbie grinned. ‘I have them. Trust me, you don’t want to see them.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have come here. I would have been quite happy to eat at Le Chat Noir.’

  Robbie put down his menu and leaned across the table to take her hand. ‘First of all, stop fidgeting with your dress. I told you before we left your apartment that you look divine, and I meant it. Second, stop worrying about the cost. Apart from the fact that I’ve been stuck in the trenches with nothing to spend my pay on for nearly two years, I’m actually quite well off.’

  ‘You would need to be rich to afford this place, I think,’ Sylvie said, sneaking a covert glance at the woman in the next booth, who was positively dripping diamonds.

  ‘Well, I am, rather, as it happens,’ Robbie replied, looking slightly abashed. ‘I inherited a fair bit of money from my grandfather, and my business—well, it’s actually quite a large concern.’

  She wondered why it hadn’t registered before. The signs had all been there. The cut of his uniform. The references to his school. And the castle. How could she have forgotten the castle? ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘It’s hardly the sort of thing one drops into the conversation. Besides, I can’t believe that it matters, except that I can easily afford to treat you to a posh meal.’

  ‘Which will probably cost as much as I earn in a year waitressing.’

  Robbie pressed her hand. ‘I rather took my life for granted before. I had no idea how privileged I was. It doesn’t matter a hoot now, my money. All that matters is that we’re here, and the food is reputed to be excellent, and as far as I am concerned, the company—by which I mean you, Sylvie—could not be better. Let’s order, I’m starving.’

  She was content to let him choose, impressed by his expertise when he did. ‘You certainly know your way around a menu.’

  ‘My sister would say I’m a show-off. I saw her briefly last week, I haven’t had a chance to tell you about it. Flora is one of the few people I know whom the war has changed for the better.’

  ‘How so?’

  Robbie frowned. ‘She was always a wee bit timid. You know, happy to do what she was told, not too much to say for herself. Now, though she plays it down, she’s a bit of a force to be reckoned with. She’s achieved wonders with the work she’s doing behind the lines. I can understand why my mother’s a bit in awe of her these days.’

  ‘Her husband is serving here in France, isn’t he?’

  ‘Geraint. Fine chap. I’ve never seen anyone so happy as Flora was on her wedding day.’ Robbie took a sip of his martini. ‘This war has a lot to answer for. They’ve never lived together, never had any sort of married life. One night of a honeymoon, then nothing but days snatched here and there since. It’s not right.’

  For the first time that day, the spectre of war had cast its shadow over them, Sylvie thought as she took a sip of her own aperitif. ‘You think their marriage was a mistake?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Have you never been in love?’ Sylvie asked.

  Robbie shook his head. ‘I thought I might be once, with a girl called Annabel. She was pretty, fun to be around. My parents liked her, which was a bonus. You’ve no idea the fuss my mother made when Flora married the son of a Welsh miner.’

  ‘
What happened—with Annabel, I mean?’

  Robbie shrugged. ‘The war. I stopped writing. She found someone else. Though I think it would have come to a natural conclusion, anyway. The fact is, we didn’t care for each other half as much as we thought we did. We sort of fell into it, really. Everyone thought we were suited, and we liked each other, and there was nothing stopping us, and—you know the kind of thing.’

  Sylvie smiled sadly. ‘Yes, I do. I thought I was in love once,’ she said. ‘A friend of Henri’s. We grew up together. We liked each other. We liked the idea of falling in love. For a while, I thought we might get married, then he met someone else, and instead of being jealous I realised I was glad.’

  Robbie grinned. ‘Not as glad as I am,’ he said, taking her hand again, ‘because otherwise you wouldn’t be my best girl.’

  The teasing look was back in his eye. ‘Best girl,’ she said, repeating the unfamiliar English phrase with a smile.

  ‘Very best,’ Robbie said, kissing her fingertips again. ‘Very different, and very best. It’s not like how it was with Annabel, Sylvie. You and I, I mean. You do know that, don’t you?’

  It was the way he was looking at her that did it, that mixture of teasing and tenderness, the hint of anxiety in his tone that told her how very much it mattered, and made her see, with a shock, just how very blind she had been. She loved him. She had actually fallen in love with him.

  For a few precious moments the knowledge made her feel quite euphoric, but the implications were terrifying. She would not deal with them. Not tonight. Not yet. She wanted to bask for just a little while in the glow. She wanted to savour the joy of just being with him. She loved him so much. What harm was there in pretending, just for a few hours, that it meant she would be happy with him forever after.