Seemed downright churlish to yank them out again, so Peter hopped into the passenger seat, reminding himself he was quite possibly going to be working with this woman for the duration of the war and lust was out of the question.
Even if it had taken possession of his brain.
Sitting this close in the dark was nothing short of painful. At least it was dark. It was only five minutes back to Sergeant Pendragon’s cottage. And there was a child on the back seat. Who was right now snoring. No doubt needed her adenoids out.
“It never ceases to amaze me,” Alice—Dr. Doyle, he reminded himself—said, “how a child can sleep like that after a night of trauma. But she’s been taken care of, rescued, stitched up, and tucked up. The grown-ups are looking after her.” She sighed and Peter was about to comment that things weren’t that secure for many children when Alice went on. “She’ll not worry until she wakes up, and wonders where she’ll end up living now, if she’ll be with her friends, and if she’ll be late for school tomorrow.”
“Or if you’re going to get bombed again tomorrow night.”
“Or the Germans march up the gap in the Downs. They haven’t put up all those pillboxes and Dragons’ teeth barriers all over the place just to complicate the harvest.”
“They’ve got to get here first.” He hadn’t expected to be talking about the war and invasion, but it was safer than saying what really was on his mind. Nothing like a bit of worry to take care of his urges. “Although I suppose nights like tonight are meant to soften us up so we just roll over when they tramp up from the beaches and head for London.”
“Judging by the mood in London, they’re more likely to be met with carving knives and knitting needles.”
“And pitchforks and scythes in these parts.”
She glanced at him in the night, then set her gaze back on the road. One blinkered headlight was not enough to see well in the twisting lane. “You’d take up a pitchforks or a scythe, Mr. Watson? How does that reconcile with your CO stance? Sorry!” She glanced his way again and shook her head. “I had no right to ask that.”
“You put it a lot more tactfully than most people do. ‘You’d sit by and watch your sister get raped by a German, would you?’ is one of the favorite lines.” Why was he telling her this? Had to be a combination of tiredness and the odd isolation of the dark.
“Do you even have a sister?”
“Actually, no. I’ve two little half brothers, and if anyone laid a hand on them I’d plant him a facer and then attack below the waist.” He sensed her smile in the dark. “It’s a long story, but I cannot, will not, pick up a gun. The board accepted that.” And he hoped to hell she did.
She’d stopped the car.
They were back at his cottage.
Just as well. Another half mile he’d no doubt have spilled his whole hideous past. “Er…thanks.”
He hopped out of the car and went around the back to retrieve the bicycles.
She was there with him, turned the handle, and opened the back. “Try to get a few hours’ sleep, Mr. Watson. And this is a doctor talking. We still need to start at nine in the morning. Gloria will need help with the home visits and we need to find out what to do with all the children, to say nothing of the Arckle boys.”
The Arckle boys? “You mean Dave and Sid.”
“Yes. The billeting committee is going to have its hands full. I can’t keep them all in my place indefinitely.”
He reached for the sergeant’s bicycle at precisely the same moment she did and their hands closed on the handlebars together.And just about undid all his brilliant efforts at self control.
Her hands were warm, smooth, and darn strong as she grasped the handlebars, and his hand, for a split second before drawing back. “Sorry. You want to get that one?”
He did, and the other actually, but she swung his down with little effort and wheeled it beside him up the path. But forget the blackout, their exhaustion, and the injured child sleeping in the car, and they might have been returning after an afternoon spin across the Surrey Hills, stopping off for a picnic by some river, and now he’d be getting ready to ask her in for coffee.
He almost laughed out loud.
Seemed stress and fatigue made his imagination run riot.
“Er…excuse me…”
She’d been talking to him, or trying to, while he was verging on impure thoughts. “Sorry.”
“That’s alright. I’m the one needs to apologize.” She leaned the bicycle against the side of the house and looked up at him. Her face was a pale shape in the darkness. “I’m not good at apologizing. Never have been. But I owe you one. That first afternoon I made some very rude, unjustified comments. I’m sorry.” She paused as if to catch her breath. “You’re not a coward. Tonight proved it and I had no business to make such a sweeping judgment without knowing a thing about you.”
He shrugged, unsure how to reply. “Tonight I just did my job.” With a lot of help.
“Without you, those two brothers would have been buried alive and no doubt dead the time they dug them out. You saved their lives.”
“I didn’t do it alone. Sergeant Pendragon…”
“Is an old man. You went down into the cellar—he told me that. You went looking for them, not knowing if you’d be able to get out again. That, Mr. Watson, is courage in my book.” He ought to tell the truth, but she’d think he was out of his mind. Perhaps he was. “Thank you,” she went on, “and I look forward to working with you.”
She offered her hand.
He took it.
His earlier impression had been dead on. Her skin was still warm, even in the chilly night, her grasp strong, and he might sense rather than see her smile, but he just knew it crinkled the corners of her blue eyes. Which must sparkle with life and beauty and…
Oh, dash it all!
Holding hands was nowhere near enough. Why waste the night and the moment?
He put his arm on her shoulders, drawing her closer. To his utter amazement and delight, she stepped into him, looking up at him. This close he could almost see the soft curve of her lips. He felt the warmth of her breath as he lowered his mouth and brushed her lips with his.
That was all he intended: a reckless, stolen kiss that they could both forget in daylight.
If they had any sense.
Which they obviously didn’t.
Instead of stepping back, she leaned into him, warm and soft against him; and, tilting her neck, opened her mouth and wrapped her arms around him.
His lips pressed hers and dash it, she was kissing him back. Hard. With a little sigh she came even closer, pressing herself into him and reaching up to pull his head down. His tongue touched hers. Just a cautious, gentle caress of tip to tip. But not for long. High explosive wasn’t the word for what happened between them. His mind went up in a blaze of need, possessiveness, and passion as he deepened the kiss.
She let him. Damn! She was leading now, holding him, letting her tongue curl and caress over his as he basked in her warmth and breathed her scent in the night.
He pulled her even closer, holding her tighter in his embrace, never wanting this to end, wishing to stay here forever, lost in the dream and the sheer and utter wonder of Alice Doyle’s kiss.
His hands slid up and down her back, making him suddenly aware of her skirt and sweater pulled on over her night clothes. He was only too aware of no brassiere under her clothes and maybe no…
Holy smoke! He had to stop. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Wanted to stand here, on the garden path, for eternity, their mouths pressed and bodies warm against each other.
At last she drew away to pause for breath.
“Dr. Doyle, I…” Damn! He was not apologizing. Or should he? Christ, what was…
“Good night, Mr. Watson. Good night.” She stepped back before giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Don’t be late in the morning. Gloria will need you.”
And she didn’t?
He hadn’t dreamt it. Had he?
H
e stood like a blamed fool in the dark, listening to the sound of her engine fade in the distance.
Hell! What next?
He was too elated to worry and too flat out exhausted to think. Making sure the cycles were propped up inside the shed, he closed the door on them and went into the house.
He undressed. He really needed a good bath after clambering over the walls and rubble but the stove had gone out in their absence and a quick wash in cold water was all he bothered with. He lay in bed for some time thinking over the evening, and in particular, the last few minutes of it.
He’d witnessed the impossible, managed the unthinkable, and stolen a kiss, no, a KISS, from a woman who would perhaps revile him in the morning.
And if she did, blow it. It had been worth it, even if he couldn’t roll over on his stomach right now.
It took all Alice had to keep her hands from shaking on the steering wheel. She had to get Maggie back safely and herself under control. Whatever Gran and June Groves had managed, there was still a long night ahead of them getting children to sleep; even finding spots for all of them to stretch out was going to be a challenge.
And, as if she didn’t have more than enough on her plate, she only had to throw herself at her new assistant!
He’d not exactly repulsed her, but what man ever said “no” to a free kiss? What maggot had seized her brain? Apologizing was one thing. She owed him that. Gran had been right: There were many sorts of courage and she, Alice Doyle, had witnessed one of the finest tonight. Peter Watson has risked his life to save two boys he’d never met. He was incredible, honorable, and wonderful.
And she was a total fool.
How in the name of heaven had a handshake become an out-and-out, tongue-down-the-throat kiss with her loving it all and wanting more?
How had she let herself get so…
A whimper from the back seat brought Alice back to her responsibilities. “Won’t be long now, Maggie. Just up the hill and we’ll be home. My gran will fix you a nice cup of cocoa and we’ll find you somewhere to sleep.”
She might as well give up her bed to one of the others who needed it. Alice doubted she’d sleep much tonight. It would take all the time she had until dawn and more to work out how she was going to face her new assistant in the morning.
Chapter 17
What Alice needed was a long, quiet evening with a soak in a hot bath and a glass of wine. She might as well yearn to fly. It was about as likely.
As she walked into the kitchen, Gran looked up from washing a little girl’s hair in the sink. “Hello, dear,” Gran said. “A long night?”
And it wasn’t over yet. June, looking as weary as Alice felt, was drying the boy’s hair with a towel. She was still in her torn and dusty clothes; the children were wearing an odd assortment of clean garments Gran had obviously scrounged up. Alice recognized one of her own shortie nightgowns, Alan’s rolled up pajama bottoms, and the old shawl her grandmother wore to read in bed.
As expected, her grandmother had managed.
“How’s Maggie and Celia and the boys?” June asked.
“Maggie’s asleep on my back seat. I came in to ask someone to hold open the doors when I carry her in. Celia went off in the ambulance with Mrs. Roundhill. Dave has a broken arm at least, maybe his collarbone, and I think you were right about Celia’s leg. Sid went along with Dave with Sergeant Pendragon as chaperone. Where should I take Maggie? I don’t want to wake her if I can help.”
“Take her up to Simon’s room,” Gran replied. “Two can sleep there. We’ve taken the mattress off the box springs.”
With June’s help, they got the child upstairs. She woke briefly but settled under the covers. Alice rather envied her.
“Mrs. Burrows,” June said when they stood outside the door, “is incredible. She found clean night things for all of us, she had beds set up and blankets airing for us, and I can’t thank her enough. Splitting the children up right now would have been upsetting.”
“Gran knew the vicarage had been hit and guessed you’d need a place for the night.”
“For more than a night, but we can’t impose on her for long.”
“Things will work out. Everyone can camp out here until something permanent can get arranged.”
It took almost another hour to get everyone settled and asleep. Everyone under the age of ten that was. June gladly stretched out on the mattress in Simon’s room in case Maggie woke up scared, and Alice prepared to follow suit, grateful Gran hadn’t put any of the children in her room. She tried to shove that selfish thought away but she longed for solitude. And a few hours’ sleep. Actually, she yearned for a good eight hours, but she’d told Peter not to be late, so she had to be on time.
Peter, yes! She needed more that eight hours’ sleep to get that sorted out. He’d kissed her but it hadn’t stopped there. She’d kissed him back with all her might and main and would still be doing so if she hadn’t fortuitously paused for breath, and the influx of oxygen to her brain had yanked her back to her senses.
“Let me bring you a cup of mint and lavender tea,” Gran said. “It’ll help you relax.”
Gran and her potions and tisanes. Alice wanted to shake her head, but it was too much effort, and when Gran did bring it up a few minutes later, the scent of it put Alice in mind of a summer day in the garden in far less frantic times. She sniffed back a tear.
“Weary and worn, my love?”
That was putting it mildly. “Just tired, Gran. To think that people in London put up with this every night. Poor Mrs. Roundhill is in sorry shape, and it was only touch-and-go that we got the two older boys out.”
“Yes, June told me about that.”
There was a long, pregnant pause. Her grandmother waited. “You were right, Gran. I made a hasty and unjustified judgment. I apologized to him.” And just about swallowed his tonsils in the process. That she was not sharing with Gran.
“I think he’ll be a great support and help to you, my love. He’s what you need.”
“Another pair of hands will be a godsend.” And what hands! She could still feel the warmth of them on her back.
“He’ll be an asset to the village, Alice, but he’s what you need. You’ll suit each other well.”
Gran had never been eager to pair her off. Why now? “Gran, he’s my assistant.”
“And a very good looking, intelligent young man. Don’t be obtuse, my love. You’ve eyes in your head and a brain between your ears. He’s exactly what you need; don’t deny the obvious.”
“What’s so obvious?”
All she got was a rather smug smile.
“Gran, I’ve know him barely a week and thoroughly insulted him the first time we met.”
“He’ll get over that. Has already, I don’t doubt. Alice, trust me. I know these things.” Like she knew the planes weren’t just passing over tonight.
“Gran, you put too much stock in feelings and guesses.”
“Child, they’re not guesses, nor are they wild, senile imaginings. That young man is here for you, a fact you’d recognize if you’d just harness the powers you possess instead of denying them. Now good night, sleep well.”
Surprisingly, she did.
Thank heaven for alarm clocks. As Peter rolled over and tapped off the ringer, he forced himself to sitting. He was bone tired, his stitches ached and pulled, and he was most definitely not rested.
But he had, last night, kissed the most beautiful and sexiest woman in the world. Even if hell did break loose this morning, it was worth it.
Pulling on his dressing gown he noticed a note pinned on the inside of his door.
Lad, I stoked up the boiler so there’s plenty of hot water. I’ll bet you’re needing it as much as I did. Be as quiet as you can going downstairs; the boy is sleeping on the sofa in the front room.
H. Pendragon
P.S. His brother has a broken arm and collarbone and several broken ribs and needed some stitches but is otherwise in fine shape, thanks to you.
&n
bsp; Peter shook his head. He and Sergeant Pendragon were going to have to have a talk and soon. After he had a nice, hot bath.
The Pendragon bathroom was a lean-to built off the kitchen, the floor stone and cold, and the hip bath a trifle snug, but Sergeant Pendragon hadn’t lied about the hot water. Peter scrubbed himself twice, letting out the water and refilling the bath between times—in the dark he hadn’t realized exactly how filthy he’d been—and then shampooed his hair, combing it smooth so it would dry while he shaved.
Of course that little indulgence took time. He’d have to scramble if he was going to be on time. But he wasn’t arriving unshaven.
He emerged to the aroma of frying. Pendragon stood at the stove, frying pan in hand. “Morning, lad. I thought we both deserve a good fry up after our efforts last night.”
And a good talk. “I’m supposed to meet Nurse Prewitt at nine.”
“After last night, no one in this village is going to look askance if you’re fifteen minutes late. Nip upstairs lad, and by the time you’re dressed, I’ll have us a pot of tea and a plate of fried bread and tomatoes. Do you like your eggs fried hard or runny?”
With fried bread? Only one way. “Runny, please. I’ll be back down in half a mo.”
He was going to be late, dammit, but he wasn’t churl enough to refuse a cooked meal, which reminded him, he needed to hand over his ration book, and above all else he needed a talk with the sergeant.
It wasn’t going to be easy. How exactly do you ask your host, who’s just put in front of you the best breakfast you’ve seen in months, if he possessed supernatural strength, or if you’d been hallucinating on overly strong tea the night before? What was Sherlock Holmes’s line about if one eliminated the impossible the improbable had to be true? Or was it the other way round?
Either way…
“Eat up, lad,” the sergeant said as he put a mug of tea on the table in front of Peter. “I can make you toast if you want. No marmalade, but I’ve some dripping to spread on it.”
Bloody Good Page 12
