“Lovely,” he said to Reverend Roundhill as he came up to them.
“We thought the Welsh national anthem would be a nice tribute,” he replied.
Howell hadn’t the heart to tell the well-meaning man that “Land of My Fathers” was their national anthem, but Alice knew—she met Howell’s eyes and smiled. “They must have been practicing for ages.”
“They have,” Reverend whispered back as the music ended, and someone at the back started three cheers for Gryffyth.
There was no backing out after that.
He’d been right, Howell thought, as one by one and in little clusters the villagers came up to shake Gryffyth’s hand. The village needed a hero and, willing or not, Gryffyth had been cast for the role.
One he seemed to accept gracefully enough as he settled down with a beer and a plate of food.
“I think Tom Longhurst’s playing hard to get,” Gloria whispered to Mary as they cleared the buffet table.
Mary looked across the hall at Tom dancing with one of the land girls. “Good,” she replied, hoping his version of “hard to get” would soon become “no longer interested.”
“Why don’t you young things go and dance?” Mrs. Chivers said, bustling up to both of them. “I know that young man of yours, Gloria, is getting impatient. You’ve both been such a help. You go and have some fun.”
Dragged onto the floor by Gloria, Mary ended up Stripping the Willow with one of the workers from the munitions plant on the heath. As she reached the end of the line, and her partner swung her around, she looked toward the side of the hall and met Gryffyth Pendragon’s eyes.
Chapter Four
Mary let out a gasp. She must have stumbled, tripped or missed her footing. Her partner caught her and a moment later he had her right hand and she was back in the rhythm of the dance. Or at least her feet were keeping time with the music as she and whatever-his-name-was made their way down the dancers to the end. Now she had her back to the dark-eyed man. She wanted so much to turn and look at him again. But she wasn’t that rude, was she? Her partner was a nice lad, pleasant, polite, and about as exciting as peeling a sack of potatoes.
While behind her was…God! She felt his gaze like a fire up and down her spine as she moved up the dance as another couple took off down the line. Utter nonsense. Was it? She swallowed hard. She wanted so much to turn her head. To prove to herself she was imagining things. That Gryffyth Pendragon (she knew it was him from the triumphal entrance engineered by the village worthies) was not watching her every step and breath, and the heat in his glance as she met his eyes was a figment of her imagination. But without turning her back on her partner and the dance, there was no way she could be sure. Besides, that would be rude. She caught the hand of the next man coming down the line. She had to concentrate, pay attention, smile at her partner.
While behind her, his eyes boring a hole between her shoulder blades, was the guest of honor who had umpteen old friends here and knew everyone and…
Mary stepped up as another couple reached the bottom.
Two more couples and the dance would be over. She must be out of condition. That was it. She needed to get herself up to the hammerpond and immerse herself in the water to restore her equilibrium. Why else was her heart racing like this?
The last couple reached the end. The music stopped with a flourish. She honored her partner with a bob of a curtsy, thanked him, and avoided Tom Longhurst’s glance as he came toward her.
She didn’t remember crossing the length of the village hall—no doubt she’d walked on toes, tripped up children and pushed aside old ladies. She just made a beeline to where Gryffyth Pendragon sat, watching her approach.
He smiled as she reached him.
Her mouth went dry.
What the hell was she doing? Approaching a virtual stranger, and the guest of honor into the bargain, when she’d promised to go back and help with the tea urn.
“Hello,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Mary LaPrioux.”
“I know,” he replied, moving a coat off the chair next to him. “Have a seat. Want a beer?”
She loathed beer. “Thank you.” He filled a glass from the almost empty jug in front of him. She took a sip. Yes. She loathed beer but it wouldn’t kill her. “How did you know my name?”
Easy enough, really. Most of the village knew who she was by now.
“I asked Tom Longhurst.”
Spluttering beer down her nose would have ruined the moment. It was a near thing. “Tom?”
“Yes.” She noticed his eyes weren’t dark. His long lashes were, but his eyes were the blue of a Guernsey sea in June and crinkled at the corners as he gave a slow, almost twisted, smile. “He told me you were taken.”
“What?” Yes, she had no trouble believing it. “Not by him, I’m not!” That was it. He wasn’t even getting the promised dance now.
“Good,” Gryffyth replied, taking a deep drink of his beer.
They sat in silence. Not an awkward one, but it did go on too long.
“I know your father’s glad you’re back safely.”
He nodded. “He keeps saying that.”
“You doubt him?”
He drained his glass. “No.” The empty glass made a soft, dull thud as he put it down on the table.
Odd wasn’t the word. He was abrupt, almost off-putting, but she didn’t want to leave him. Something about him kept her here, sitting so close their knees almost touched while she sipped on the beer that tasted worse with each mouthful.
“You don’t think much of the beer, do you?”
Why lie. “I don’t usually drink it. But I’ve never tasted Surrey beer and thought it was time I did.”
“Or,” he said with an edge in his voice, “you didn’t want to ask a cripple to hobble across the room for a glass of orange squash.”
“Of course not.” That earned her a scowl. “I loathe orange squash.”
His laugh was gloriously deep and earthy and sent warm shivers down her back. It took all she had not to rest her hands on his chest and feel the ripples coursing in his muscles.
She meshed her fingers together and clasped her hands tight.
“What do you like, Mary LaPrioux?”
“Moonlit nights, warm breezes, running across the countryside.” And bathing naked in the hammerpond, but the latter she’d best keep to herself.
“Bit late in the year for all that, isn’t it?”
And no doubt tactless of her to mention running. “It’ll be spring before you know it.” Unless they had a winter like last year’s to get through.
“Are you always this cheerful?”
“Not really. It’s a front I put on. I get pretty dismal when I let myself go.”
He chuckled. Not quite as sexy as his laugh but very nice all the same. “That makes two of us. Maybe we should get dismal together.”
Not quite knowing why, she reached over and took his hand. “Best not,” she said.
He closed his fingers over hers. “What do you want, Mary LaPrioux?”
She had absolutely no idea. Other than to sit beside him and try to make him laugh again. “I wouldn’t mind a cigarette.” He reached into his jacket pocket, flipped the pack open and offered her one. Then produced a silver lighter. “Thank you.”
“I’ll swap you for the beer.”
“Go ahead, but I drank out of it.”
“Not got anything contagious, have you?”
“We’ve had problems with headlice in the school.” Dear God! He was wonderful when he laughed. Wonderful but so melancholy.
“Nothing worse than that?”
“Terminal homesickness.” Now why had she said that? She was saying nutty things. Stupid things.
He nodded. “I know what that’s like.”
Another odd, but not uncomfortable silence. Then he squeezed her hand, his fingers strong and warm around hers. She met his eyes and his odd, twisted smile. Very sexy, odd, twisted smile.
“Looks like Tom Longhurs
t is heading this way. I bet he wants to ask you to dance.”
She bet he was too, dammit. “You’d better ask me first.”
His smile faded as if snapped out. “Take your jokes somewhere else.”
Hurt wasn’t the word, but darn it, he’d walked into the hall and…“I’m not joking, funning, or teasing. It’s a waltz, nice and slow.” She stood, only half aware what she was saying and doing. But she kept hold of his hand. “Come on.”
The woman was loony. Expecting him to dance when he could barely walk.
“It’s a really slow one,” she repeated.
Gryffyth glanced up. Longhurst was definitely heading his way. Damn. “If I fall and measure my length, you’re going to swing for it.”
“You won’t.”
He stood. Had to be as insane as she was. Except she walked slowly, keeping pace with his hobble, and the look on Longhurst’s face was almost worth the risk of humiliating himself in public. Side by side they walked to the middle of the dance floor. He couldn’t help noticing that everyone stepped back, scared he’d land on them when he toppled, no doubt. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell this woman she was mad as a hatter and go back to his beer. But she rested her hand on his shoulder, his arm curled around her waist and she smiled up at him. “Want me to lead?”
Hell, no! He took a firmer hold of her waist, clasped her right hand in his left one and, on the beat, stepped forward.
With his tin leg.
He didn’t fall, didn’t topple in a heap, but it wasn’t exactly graceful as they bobbed and stepped. She was surprisingly strong for her slender build. When he wobbled, she steadied him. When he lurched, she added balance and held him strong. Forget fancy twirls and reverse turns. This was simple, straightforward, tread-on-your-partner’s-toes waltzing. He managed to miss her shins most of the time but her toes had to be black-and-blue.
Not that her toes were really foremost in his mind. She was warm and so obviously woman, as he held her close, but not too close. Better not.
They didn’t talk. He couldn’t concentrate on his wayward limb—to say nothing of wayward other parts—and hold intelligent conversation at the same time. She was so intent on keeping him upright, and doing a damn good job of it too, she had a little crease between her eyes.
He’d been right from the start. This was nuts. But sheer heaven to feel her warm body in his arms. He wanted more of her. Much more. That was utterly insane.
The music stopped.
He threw sanity to the four winds. “If I had two good legs,” he said, “I’d ask you to step outside with me.”
“You have two good legs,” she replied. “Just part of one isn’t the same leg you were born with.”
“It’s not that simple!”
He’d snapped, but damn…how many people had heard?
“Nothing’s simple,” she replied.
He was about to snap again, but his father put his hand on his arm. “Excuse me, Miss LaPrioux, but the vicar has a few words to say. I need Gryffyth.”
Thank heaven for that. Mary gladly stepped away and made a beeline for the ladies’. What had possessed her? She’d never asked a man to dance in her life. She’d said some of the most tactless, blunt and rude things possible and, dear heaven help her, she missed him already. Something deep and visceral drew her to Gryffyth Pendragon. Seemed her brain switched off and her hormones took over.
He’d as good as asked her to step outside and she’d have gone with him if his father hadn’t arrived. Good thing he did, too. Or she’d have made an even bigger spectacle of herself.
And wouldn’t have cared one iota.
Time to get her brains and sanity back.
Pushing open the door to the ladies’, Mary bumped into a woman busy applying makeup in the mottled mirror. “Sorry!” She stepped aside and headed for the toilet.
“Hello,” the woman said. Seemed rude to step in and latch the door, so Mary hesitated. “You’re the new teacher, aren’t you?” Mary agreed she was. “Such a brave and kindly action that was. Taking pity on that poor young man.” For a few seconds, Mary stared at her, confused. “So good of you to act out of the kindness of your heart like that. I hope other young gels follow your example.”
“I certainly don’t,” Mary replied, stepping into the cubicle, almost slamming the door, and latching it with a trembling hand. The woman thought dancing with Gryffyth Pendragon had been an act of pity! Stupid old bison! Who in their right mind? Oh, dear heavens! A shudder went down to her toes. Did everyone think that? Did he?
Why had she done it, anyway? Never, ever in her life had she approached a man so brazenly. Was it because she saw him as crippled? No! A million times, no! But why? Excessive hormones? Wildness? Stupidity? The entire village had to be talking about it! She couldn’t go back out there, knowing she was the subject of wild gossip. She was being ridiculous thinking anyone really noticed. Only that woman had.
Mary’s heart thudded and she was close to shaking.
What had possessed her?
And why, oh why?
Refusing to even think about it anymore, Mary emerged, thankful that now the only other occupants of the ladies’ were a pair of workers from the plant, and nipped out the door. She found her coat on one of the hooks and slipped out the back entrance.
Once out in the cold, she stood looking across the churchyard in the night. Behind her were the sounds of music as the piano started up the “Dashing White Sergeant.” She could either go back, or go home.
Without thinking twice, she set off down the lane toward the cottage she shared with Gloria.
Sir James Gregory meant well, Gryffyth conceded, but why all this fuss? Was coming out of that fiasco alive, apart from a missing leg, such an accomplishment? A lot of good men, his good men, were dead or prisoners of war. Seemed a travesty to be standing here in the limelight while others shuddered under fire, or rotted in prison camps. But mindful of his father’s words, Gryffyth thanked everyone for the wonderful party, expressed his joy at being home again and as soon as he decently could, made his way back to his table and looked around for Mary.
Who was nowhere to be seen.
For one crazed instant of rabid jealousy he imagined she’d gone off with Tom Longhurst, but no, there he was, old Tom chatting up a redheaded woman.
Mary had disappeared. He half imagined he’d dreamt her, but noticed the stubbed-out cigarette with her lipstick on the end. She’d been here, alright.
Peter Watson, Alice Doyle’s new husband, and a nice enough chap it seemed, came up with a fresh jug of beer. “Thought you could use this,” he said, putting the jug down.
“Thanks. Have a seat.” Didn’t look as if Mary was coming back.
“Just a tick. We’ll be off home soon. Alice was out on a call last night and she’s half dead on her feet.”
“Didn’t stop her dancing, did it?”
“You’re a good one to talk. You and Mary pretty much took over the floor.”
They had, hadn’t they? He couldn’t help the smile at the thought and the frown that she’d scarpered so thoroughly. Thinking better of her impulse, no doubt. Damn. “Been here long, has she? I don’t remember her.” Sounded nicely casual. He hoped.
Peter grinned. “Didn’t get around to talking much, did you?”
No, she scarpered too fast.
“She’s a schoolteacher. Evacuated from Guernsey with a bunch of school children. She’s billeted with Gloria Prewitt, the nurse. You remember her?”
Gryffyth nodded. “Yeah.”
“Fancy her, do you? Mary, I mean. Gloria’s already taken.”
No point in admitting he did. She’d shown clearly how she felt. He gave Peter a grin. “Gloria’s taken. You grabbed Alice. All my old girlfriends gone for a burton.” He took a swig of beer. “The place has changed.”
“That’s the war. It’s changed everything.”
Was that what Dad had been on about?
Chapter Five
A partisan camp in sout
heast Germany
Angela looked up as Bela Mestan walked into the cave hideout. “Your sister is useless. She does nothing but eat our food.”
Bela looked Angela in the eye and glared. She hadn’t escaped the Nazis, rescued her sister from Flossenbürg, and fled into the mountains to put up with this. “My sister cooks and tends the fire.” When she wasn’t sleeping as she was now. “She was near death when we came here. As you would be if you’d been treated as she was. I do enough for you to repay her food.” Scanty as they were, the partisans’ meager rations were slowly restoring Gela’s strength.
Angela was unsatisfied. She scowled at the others clustered around the fire. “We cannot afford to feed useless mouths.”
Spiteful, stupid human! Bela wanted to shriek into Angela’s piglike eyes that Fairies were never useless. That they could do far more than humans, run faster, hide unnoticed, and move silently where mortals tramped and tripped.
She didn’t have to.
“Leave her be, Angela,” Rachel, the other woman in the group, said. “Rolf and Hans are coming back.”
Rolf was their leader and his support and acceptance of Bela and her twin rankled with Angela but she went quiet, seemingly contenting herself with scowling at the fire.
The fire that Fairy magic kept hidden from mortal eyes. Bela dreaded discovery even more than her mortal companions.
Both men came in, shaking the snow from their shoulders and depositing a large bundle on the floor.
“Turnips,” Hans said. “There’s not much else out there. We need to take Bela with us next time. She can always find something.”
Steal it, he meant, and yes, she could, sneaking into barns and villages unnoticed.
“We’re hungry and cold,” Rolf said, looking at the pot on the fire. “Stew?”
“Rabbit,” Angela replied.
“That Bela caught,” Rachel added and got a snarl for her pains.
The two men picked up enamel bowls and filled them from the pot resting on the campfire. Rolf sat beside Bela. “You and your sister speak English, don’t you?”
Bloody Right Page 3
