Their kisses were wilder now. He fumbled with her belt and she yanked it off. She undid the buttons of her dress for him, eager for his touch. It slid to the floor. She kicked it away. He moaned, dipping his head to the swell of her bosom, cupping her breasts, teasing her nipples into a tantalising, aching hardness.
‘Mon Dieu, I did not think— I have not— I did not intend...’ His breathing was laboured. He ran his hands through his hair. ‘If we do not stop now— If you want to stop, tell me now, because...’
She felt as if she was dangling on a precipice. She knew the risks she was taking, but she didn’t care. Not tonight. The world felt poised, balanced on the cusp of a new dawn, and while it was, only this existed in the gap in between. She didn’t want to think about tomorrow. Tonight, she wanted only this. ‘No,’ she said, and the word made her feel as if she was flying. ‘No,’ she repeated, more for herself than him. ‘I don’t want us to stop.’
He picked her up in his arms. The bed was narrow but high. He laid her down on the hard mattress and helped her slide out of her petticoat. When he took off her stockings, he kissed her ankles, her knees. Stepping back, he quickly removed the rest of his clothes. She did the same, tossing her brassière and knickers carelessly onto the floor. Now that she had abandoned herself, she felt utterly without shame, deliciously liberated.
He stood naked over her for a long moment, desire etched in his expression. His erection was thick, jutting up towards his belly. His body was lean and hard, just as she had imagined. ‘Que vous êtes belle,’ he whispered, then dipped his head to take her nipple in his mouth and sucked.
Heat enveloped her. She shivered, moaned and wrapped her legs around him. She was already on the edge. She leaned into the hard wall of his chest, feeling the roughness of his hair on her cheek, flattening her palms over his torso, his belly, round to his back and down to his buttocks.
He took her other nipple in his mouth. She reached for him, wrapping her hand around his erection. The skin was silky. She stroked him. He groaned and claimed her mouth again in the wildest of kisses. She stroked him again. ‘Attendez,’ he said urgently, leaving her side briefly to rake through a drawer in a chest over by the fire.
‘Standard issue,’ he said, returning with the condom, turning away from her to pull it on before joining her on the bed. ‘I had not thought I would have need of it.’
His fingers slid into her. He was lying half over her, his erection nudging into her side. His lips were on hers again. His fingers were stroking, sliding, stroking. She tensed, arching under him, her body alight, coiled, desperate for release. ‘Please,’ she begged, with an urgency that should have embarrassed her but didn’t.
She heard that low growling laugh again. He pulled her upright to sit on the edge of the bed while he stood in front of it, tilting her to wrap her legs around his waist before nudging his way inside her.
He was being both careful and gentle, but that was not what she wanted right now. She was only just clinging on. She dug her heels into his flanks. He thrust. She gasped, her muscles tensing around him as he pulled her tighter up against him, his hands under her buttocks, and thrust higher. She leaned back on her elbows and arched her spine, and he thrust higher again.
Her body was singing for release, but she didn’t want to let go. Not yet. She braced herself, and when he thrust again, she met him, arching upwards, drawing a long groan from him. He thrust again, and she found if she tilted her own body upwards he plunged even deeper.
His eyes were dark pools, focused on hers. She watched him, fascinated, enthralled by the reflection of every thrust on his face. She didn’t want it to end. She clung on, the frisson of each withdrawal so intense it was almost her undoing.
‘Mon Dieu,’ he gasped, his voice with a gravelly edge to it now. He was close. She could feel him swelling inside her, but still she held on. Then he slid his hand from under her buttocks and touched her, circling her, thrusting at the same time, and suddenly everything was pulsing and her climax ripped through her, making her cry out, shuddering, arching, clinging, tightening around him, and he cried out, too, a carnal, animalistic sound, as he came as wildly as she.
* * *
Panting, Luc withdrew. The woman on the bed was a picture of abandon, her golden hair splayed out behind her, her breasts rising and falling. He could not believe what they’d just shared. It felt quite unreal and at the same time, on a visceral level, as real as anything ever could feel. His body thrummed. He couldn’t remember feeling this alive since— No, he wasn’t going to try to remember, and besides, it had never been like this. He was astonished to discover, as he looked, that his body would very much like to repeat the experience. That was what four years’ abstinence did for you, he thought, dragging his eyes away and grabbing a towel to wrap around himself. Four years’ abstinence and a vibrant blonde and the end of the war.
‘I’m just going to...’ He headed for the door, and the bathroom, because if he stayed he would end up in bed with her, and though his body heartily approved, his mind was already wrestling with the consequences. He knew nothing about her. He had no doubt that she had wanted him every bit as much as he had wanted her, but he wasn’t at all sure how she’d feel now that their passion was spent. Or at least partially spent, he thought ruefully, looking down at his persistent hardness. He knew, because he couldn’t help overhearing the talk in the mess, that this sort of thing went on all the time among the staff, but never having indulged, he had no idea of the post-coital etiquette.
From wild elation, his spirits plummeted. Luc swore under his breath. Etiquette! Sacre bleu, he had just made love to a complete stranger, and he was worrying about etiquette. What had he been thinking? How could he have allowed himself to become so carried away? He should have stayed at the hospital. He should not have danced with her. He should not have kissed her. He should certainly not have brought her back here. Though honestly, truly, he couldn’t regret it. Blame it on the Armistice. Call it an aberration. Blame it on the girl. Not a girl, a woman. And he would not do that. All she had done was dance when he asked her. Kissed him back when he kissed her. Wanted him when he had wanted her.
No, he could not blame the girl. Woman. Sheila. Who was probably wondering where the hell he’d gone, maybe even thinking he’d abandoned her. Perhaps she knew more about how these things played out? No. Even in the heat of passion, her lack of experience was apparent. He was certain this was as much an aberration for her as it was for him.
Zut! Confused and irritated with himself because he was, after all, a thirty-five-year-old man and not a callow youth, Luc made his way along the draughty corridor and back to his room.
* * *
Sheila was tightening the belt of her overcoat when the door opened. He—Luc—was still clad only in a towel, and it was a very small towel. A shocking image of her hands raking down that torso, of her legs wrapped around that waist, made her blush painfully. She dragged her eyes away from his body and snatched her cap from the floor. It was ruined. If Matron saw it— But she would make blooming sure that Matron didn’t see it.
‘You’re leaving?’
He spoke English with the most delightful accent. ‘Yes,’ Sheila said briskly. The truth was she was running away. The truth was she couldn’t believe that she had allowed herself to get so carried away, and with a man she’d just met! It was a tiny consolation that she was unlikely ever to meet him again, that the backlash that had followed her last indiscretion would not be repeated. Not that the last time had been anything like this in any way. It made her burn up, just thinking about how wildly she had behaved. Mortified, she jammed her cap on, stuffing her hair up under it anyhow.
Luc was still standing at the door, blocking her exit. What was he thinking? Was he expecting her to stay? Had she broken some sort of unwritten rule by not being quick enough to make her escape while he deliberately lingered in the bathroom? She groaned inwardly. She had absolutely no idea, but she wasn’t about to betray her ignorance. Far b
etter that he thought her a floozy, because then, on the off chance that he had a conscience, it wouldn’t bother him enough to seek her out to apologise. Though if anyone ought to apologise, it should be her. She had practically devoured the poor man. ‘Well, bonne nuit,’ she said, looking expectantly at the door.
‘It is almost morning.’
If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he sounded as confused as she felt. As if! To a man as lethally attractive as him, this sort of thing was probably commonplace. Though there had been that remark about the condom. Which meant nothing save that he most likely thought to flatter her. ‘Almost morning!’ Sheila pinned on one of her brightest smiles. ‘Then I’d better hurry. I’m due on duty at eight.’
Still, he blocked the door. The longer she remained here, with him half-naked and dishevelled, reminding her of just how shockingly she had behaved, the more embarrassed she became. It wasn’t just what she had done, it was that looking at him, her body became frightfully interested in doing it all again right now. That was another thing that had never happened before. Nice, pleasant, enjoyable, it had been, before her memories were coloured with the bitter aftertaste of how it had unfolded afterwards. Not a single one of those epithets could possible apply to what had just occurred between her and this man—Luc—on that narrow bed.
‘So this is au revoir?’
It wasn’t really a question. She’d be daft to think it was a question, and she wasn’t daft. Sheila nodded firmly. Finally, he stood away from the door, but as she made to pass him, he caught her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her close against his naked torso. Her legs brushed his naked legs. Underneath that scanty towel, he was naked. Naked. Naked. Naked. And...
‘Oh!’ Her breath left her as he kissed her. She closed her eyes, and she could smell the scent of their intimacy on him. His tongue touched hers, and her belly clenched. Then he let her go.
‘Bonne nuit,’ he said roughly. ‘It was an evening I will never forget. On a day the world will never forget.’
She was too confused to reply properly. She managed a brisk goodnight that made her sound uncannily like Matron and had her cringing even as she closed the door behind her. Desperate to escape what she was fast beginning to think of as the scene of her crime, Sheila ran along the corridor, down the stairs, and out into the dawn.
* * *
Back at Number 5 General, safe in her hut, which was thankfully empty, she quickly changed into the dressing gown that her mother had sent her the Christmas before. It was more like a coat really, fashioned from hand-woven dark brown tweed that Màthair had woven herself. Though rough on the skin, it was deliciously warm, and was much envied by her fellow VADs. It was a symbol of Glen Massan and home. So many things she’d experienced since coming here at the end of 1915, so changed was she by it all, that her wee Highland village seemed like another world, another life.
Now that the war was over, she thought as she made her way to the shower block, she would go home, but only for a visit. She wasn’t the Sheila Fraser who had been born into service at the Big House. Whatever the future held for her, it certainly wasn’t going to involve going back to working as a maid for Lord and Lady Carmichael. She’d earned the right to more than that, and she was determined to claim that right.
Chapter Three
Glen Massan, Argyll, Scotland—March 1919
‘I’ve managed to get the trustees to fund the position, but remember, Sheila, the new chief surgeon will have the final say with regards to taking you on,’ Flora Cassell said. ‘He arrives tomorrow, and the Alex Carmichael Trust Hospital will be under his management. We’ve pulled off a bit of a coup in persuading someone so distinguished to come and work here.’
Sheila smiled wearily at her childhood friend. ‘I really do appreciate it. I hate having to involve you, I was so determined to get something on my own merit, but—well, it’s been a tough few months.’
‘It’s just so unfair!’ Flora jumped to her feet and began to pace back and forward between the window and the fireplace of the small parlour. ‘You worked your socks off as a VAD. The wealth of experience you picked up nursing at the front, you’d think it would be invaluable, wouldn’t you, to say nothing of the sacrifices you’ve made for your country, yet it counts for absolutely nothing.’
Sheila grimaced. ‘Less than nothing, according to some of the rejections I’ve had. I am not a qualified nurse, so I can’t be employed to do the job I’ve been doing for the past four years unless I start all over again with the General Nursing Council.’
‘That’s a damn disgrace.’
‘Flora Carmichael! If I have to ask you one more time to mind your language...’
Both women looked up as Lady Carmichael entered the room. ‘It is Flora Cassell now, Mother! If I have to remind you one more time that I’m twenty-eight and a married woman...’
Her ladyship closed the door behind her and took a seat by the fire. ‘Your language is atrocious. I blame that husband of yours. He will have you waving the red flag and tying yourself to railings, if you are not careful.’
‘His name is Geraint, Mother, as well you know. And though it is true he has opened my eyes to politics, my views are entirely my own,’ Flora said with a tight smile.
‘Why you require any views at all on such matters is quite beyond me.’
‘You’re over thirty, Lady Carmichael—you’ll be eligible to vote in the next General Election,’ Sheila said mischievously. ‘Don’t you think you ought to acquire some opinions yourself before it’s called?’
Her ladyship shuddered. ‘I shall vote as the laird instructs me. Good day to you, Sheila. I presume my daughter has informed you that she has been pulling strings on your behalf?’
‘She has, and I’ve just been telling her how grateful I am.’
‘Mother, do you know, the only positions Sheila has been offered since she was demobbed are as a lady’s companion and a lady’s maid?’
‘Where is the shame in that?’ Lady Carmichael demanded. ‘Reliable staff are in short supply these days, and as I said to Mrs Fraser myself just the other day, Sheila, the laird and I would be delighted to rehire you. Especially after all you did for poor Alex.’ At the mention of her youngest son, her ladyship’s expression crumpled. ‘I can’t tell you how much of a comfort it was to the laird and I that Alex was not among strangers at the end. We will be eternally grateful to you for that.’
Lady Carmichael dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye. The death of her youngest, favourite son just a month before the end of the war had taken a severe toll on her austere good looks, though she bore the loss more stoically than her husband. Sheila had been horribly upset when she had first encountered the laird on her return, stooped and frail, his expression so distant, a shadow of the man she had last seen striding out over his beloved moors.
It had been such a shock when Alex had been admitted. Of all the thousands of young men who had been wounded, it was incredible that her best friend’s baby brother should end up under her care. She was glad of the small miracle, though, glad that the last face he had seen had been a familiar one.
So many parents, wives, sisters and sweethearts she had comforted over the past few years, but it was easer to speak in false platitudes to strangers. She doubted she could have done the same to the laird and his wife, whom she had known all her life. But Alex had been so dosed up with morphine, he hadn’t even realised he’d been wounded. He’d recognised Sheila, though. He’d held her hand, and reminded her with that endearingly quirky smile of his, of the time he’d snatched a kiss from her under the mistletoe when he was twelve years old. ‘I’ll be twenty-one in a month,’ he’d whispered. ‘Coming of age. The war will be over then. The laird will throw a big party, and I’ll beg a kiss from the prettiest girl in Glen Massan. That’s you, incidentally. Looking forward to that. But think—may need to practise.’
She had kissed his cheek. He had died a few moments later. Poor Alex. Poor Lord Carmichael. And yes, poor
Lady Carmichael, too. But the war was over, and Sheila was determined that Alex’s death, like all the others, would have some purpose. She would not be forced back into the box from which she had escaped.
‘Since you seem set on taking up this post, I must wish you luck, Sheila,’ Lady Carmichael said, getting to her feet. ‘However, if things do not work out, please be assured that there will always be a position for you here at Glen Massan Lodge.’
‘You’re staying here, even though Glen Massan House will no longer be yours?’ Sheila asked in surprise.
Her ladyship grimaced. ‘I would prefer to leave. It is one of my daughter’s better suggestions, to move to a place where the past is not on the doorstep to haunt us, but the laird—he’s never known anywhere else.’ She turned away, dabbing at her eyes with the black-edged handkerchief that had become her constant companion. ‘What pains me, my husband finds a comfort, and so we will stay at Glen Massan. At least we have left a fitting memorial to Alex in the form of the hospital. You will excuse me now, I must go and find the laird. If I do not stand over him at meal times, he quite forgets to eat.’
The door closed behind her. ‘She might be old-fashioned, but she’s a trouper,’ Sheila said admiringly to Flora.
‘She is. I worry how she’ll cope when I leave here, but...’
‘She’ll be fine, Flora. I’ll be here to keep an eye on her, don’t forget—providing this new surgeon likes the cut of my jib. Besides, you must be desperate to join Geraint now that he’s been given a date for his release from the convalescent home. Isn’t he getting impatient?’
‘Very.’ Flora smiled, a secret little smile that made Sheila rather envious. ‘I still can’t believe he’s made such a full recovery. He’ll have a limp for the rest of his life, but there was a time when we thought he wouldn’t walk again. Though he’s so determined, I shouldn’t have doubted him’
Sheila pressed her friend’s hand. ‘All I’ve had to worry about is finding a job. Between Geraint being wounded and losing Alex, you’ve had it rough.’
Never Forget Me Page 18
