The Flying Cavalier
House of Winslow [23]
Gilbert Morris
Baker Publishing Group (2006)
* * *
When Lieutenant Lance Winslow goes to France to train with the best fliers in the world, he meets Noelle Laurent on the snowy streets of Paris and falls in love. Their marriage brings him great joy, but love cannot stop the Great War's approach...nor can his plane stop every German bomber.
Josephine Hellinger quits her job with the New York Times to become a free-lance war correspondent. Knowing that no newspaper wants a female journalist on such a dangerous assignment, she strikes out on her own.
When Josephine meets Lance Winslow, he is an embittered warrior. Personal tragedy fuels his single-minded obsession--to kill as many Germans as he can. Josephine must try to make a difference before it is too late.
(House of Winslow Book 23)
From Library Journal
In this epic family saga, Morris (The White Hunter) carries Lance Winslow, dashing RAF pilot, into battle in World War I. After losing his beloved wife during a German bombing run, Lance focuses his rage in an attempt to kill as many of the enemy as he can. Five years later, freelance journalist Josephine Hellinger meets the embittered man Lance has become. As she falls in love with him, Josephine must decide if she is willing to live with a man who is bereft of God and whose damaged heart may be unable to return her love. Fans of the series will demand this installment.
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.
About the Author
Gilbert Morris is part of a father/daughter writing team (with his daughter Lynn Morris) who have combined their writing skills to form a powerful duo! Gilbert is the author of over 30 Bethany House books, including the popular HOUSE OF WINSLOW series. size : 5.2 x 8.0
© 1999 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South Minneapolis,
Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7048-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg
Cover design by Josh Madison
To Jean and Harry Sanburn
Thanks a million for all
you’ve done for me and Kay.
It is good to find people like you
in a world which has forgotten to care.
May the Lord bless you richly
all the days of your life.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART ONE
Lance and Noelle
1. Christmas in Paris
2. Romance Above the Clouds
3. “If I Have You—I Have Everything!”
4. No Longer a Child
5. Let Slip the Dogs of War
6. Death Rains From the Skies
PART TWO
Jo
7. Jo Meets a Cowboy
8. “A War Is No Place for a Woman!”
9. Paris!
10. Death of a Lover
11. The Foreign Legion
12. Over the Top!
PART THREE
Logan
13. “All Americans Are Rude!”
14. “No Man Can Shop for a Girl!”
15. Logan and His Nurse
16. A Cowboy in France
17. “You’ll Always Love Her, Lance!”
18. “I Believe in Love”
PART FOUR
Danielle
19. Some Things Can’t Be Dreamed
20. “I’ve Forgotten God . . . !”
21. The Search
22. A Different Logan
23. Three Are Better Than Two
24. Deadly Mission
25. A Time to Embrace
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Christmas in Paris
Snowflakes as fluffy as down and as large as gold coins drifted silently down out of slate gray skies, muffling the streets of Paris in a three-inch carpet of pristine white. The sun had remained hidden behind clouds all day, and the city on the day before Christmas in the year 1908 lay still with that strange silence that comes with a gentle snowfall. The carpet of glistening white had muted the clatter of the hooves of horses and the rattling of wheels from the coaches that plied the streets, and Noelle Laurent was delighted with the winter scene. Making her way along the Champs Elysées, she glanced skyward, where myriads of flakes danced in the amber glow of the streetlights, which were just barely necessary at this time of day. “This is my day,” she murmured. “No wonder I was named after it. Mama must have known I would love Christmas so much.”
Noelle was wearing a lightweight blue woolen overcoat that reached almost down to her high-laced shoes. On her head was perched a felt hat, and the dark brown curls that escaped were covered with the white flakes. Her dark brown hair highlighted her face, and a piquant expression gave her an air of excitement as she threaded her way down the street before turning finally into a shop. The bell over the door jingled loudly, and she was met by a rotund woman with bright, merry eyes who greeted her at once.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Laurent! I am surprised to see you this late.”
“I have to get a few more things, Madame Douvey.” She laughed then for no real reason except for the sheer pleasure that ran through her. “I suppose it’s a good thing Christmas will be over after tomorrow. I’ve spent every sou I have on gifts!”
“There is a story by a man named Dickens—an Englishman,” Madame Douvey smiled. “It is about a very wicked, stingy, and greedy man named Scrooge.”
“Oh yes! A Christmas Carol. A fine tale indeed!”
“Certainement! It ends by saying Scrooge learned to keep Christmas better than any man in England.” Madame Douvey chuckled, and the action sent her massive frame quivering. “If that is so, then you, Mademoiselle Noelle Laurent, know how to keep Christmas better than any woman in France! Now, what can I show you?”
“Oh, I just need a small gift for my sister. She’s so hard to buy for. She doesn’t care anything about clothes or jewelry.”
The two women moved through the shop, which was almost empty now. Outside the last rays of the sun were fading. By the time Noelle stepped out into the street with her purchases, the darkness was complete, broken only by the faint glitter of tiny specks of light. She looked up and smiled to herself. “Such tiny stars overhead,” she murmured. “So you will have to do, Monsieur Streetlight.”
The snow was drifting down harder now in long slanting lines, and the cold bit at Noelle through her light coat. A quick glance revealed that there were no cabs available, so she turned and made her way down the street. She grasped awkwardly at several bundles, holding them to her breast, her mind moving ahead to the pleasantries of the following day. Finally she saw a cab some twenty yards ahead. At the same time she caught a quick glimpse of a tall man stepping out of a shop, intent on engaging the cab.
Oh, I have to get into that cab! she thought with alarm. Cabs were scarce on Christmas Eve, as most of the drivers were home with their families, she supposed. Noelle broke into a fas
t pace and closed the distance, but when she was no more than twenty feet away, her foot encountered a sheet of sheer ice. Uttering a wild cry as her foot slid out from under her, she threw the packages skyward. As they fell she wind-milled, waving her arms wildly as she attempted to keep her balance. But she went down, and instantly she felt her right ankle twist under her. I’ve broken it! she thought. A sharp pain shot through her ankle as she struck the pavement, catching herself partially on the heel of her right hand. Helplessly she lay there biting her lip against the pain for a moment, then struggled to get up.
A strong hand closed on her left arm, and another came around her shoulders, pulling her to a sitting position. “Well, that was a bad one! I hope nothing’s broken.”
Noelle caught a glimpse of the man’s face and answered in English. Though the pain seemed to grow even worse, Noelle Laurent managed to say, “I think my ankle is broken, monsieur.”
“Oh, I say! That is a bad one! You’ll have to go to a doctor.”
“Oh, I must go home!”
“You can’t go home with a broken ankle! There must be a doctor or a hospital somewhere. I don’t know the city.”
“My . . . father is a doctor, and he will be at home now. If you could help me to get home.”
“Why, certainly. We’ll take this cab right here.” He lifted his voice and said, “Driver, open that back door, will you?”
As he did, Noelle saw his face clearly, a clean-cut jaw and firm lips. He was very tall, she knew that much, and now she saw that he was wearing some sort of uniform. English, no doubt, although she could not identify it. Although she could not determine the exact color of his eyes, they were probably blue like those of most Englishmen. She had no time to examine him more closely, but as he suddenly bent over, she could not help but notice his handsome features. She felt his arms go under her knees, then behind her back.
“I’m going to pick you up and put you in this cab. I’ll be very careful of your ankle.”
“Thank you, monsieur.” Noelle felt herself lifted as if she weighed no more than the snowflakes that kept drifting down. His arms were strong, and she automatically, without thought, put her arms around his neck to help him bear her weight. It was an intimate position, and, despite the pain, a humorous thought ran through her. What a romantic way to start Christmas . . . ! She had no time to think about this further, for carefully he bent over and gently placed her inside the cab.
He shut the door, retrieved her packages from the sidewalk, then came around and got in beside her. “You’ll have to give directions to the driver.”
“One sixteen Rue Crozat,” she said in French.
“Oui, madame.” The driver was a short, slight man muffled up in a fur coat, and his hat was pulled down almost over his ears. “Will madame be all right?”
“It’s mademoiselle—and yes. Just get me home.”
“Certainement, mademoiselle.”
The cab protected them from the wind and the snow, of course, but it was still cold. It was a very small cab, and Noelle felt the pressure of her rescuer’s arm against her own. She looked at him and asked, “Your name, monsieur?”
“Lance Winslow.” A slight pause, then he said, “Lieutenant Winslow of the RFC.”
“The RFC? What is that?”
“The Royal Flying Corps.”
“Oh, it is with the flying machines, non?”
“It is with the flying machines, yes. How’s your ankle?”
Carefully Noelle moved her toe up and down. With a grimace she bit her lower lip. “It’s very painful, Lieutenant—but not broken, I think. Only badly sprained.”
“That was quite a fall you took back there. Is your home near here?”
“Not too far. I’m sorry to put you to such difficulty. No, that is not the word. Trouble?”
“No trouble or difficulty, either.” Lance Winslow turned to examine the young woman and added, “I have nothing else to do.”
“On Christmas Eve you have nothing else to do but rescue clumsy young women?”
The smile that lit Winslow’s face touched his eyes. He was, Noelle saw, one of those men whose eyes revealed what they were feeling with perfect clarity. He would not make a good cardplayer. His eyes would give him away every time.
“Nothing at all. I’m a long way from home.”
“Ah, that is so sad. Especially on Christmas.”
The two said nothing else until finally the driver pulled over in front of a three-story brownstone. “We are here,” he announced as he got out and threw the door open.
Noelle made an attempt to lean forward, but the tall officer simply reached out and pulled her back firmly. “You wait right here. I will announce to your parents what has happened.” He hesitated, then said, “Do they speak English as well as you?”
“Yes, of course. We all speak English very well. My father interned in Grey’s Hospital in London.” She gnawed her lip in a worried manner. “Do not alarm them if you can help it, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Getting out of the car, Winslow went up the first steps very carefully, for they were piled with at least four inches of white, fluffy snow. A brass knocker on the door caught his attention, and he banged it firmly several times. Looking back, he saw the young woman peering out at him anxiously. Pretty thing, I wonder how old she is. At that point the door opened, and a young woman stood before him. He was not an expert at gauging the ages of young people, but he thought probably she might be twelve or thirteen. “Hello,” he said. “Are your parents home?”
“What is it you want?” the girl asked.
For a moment Lance hesitated. He really needed to talk to the parents, and fortunately at that moment a man with dark hair streaked with gray came into the foyer. He examined the tall man with one quick gaze and spoke a few words in French. Seeing the incomprehension in his guest’s face he immediately said, “Yes, monsieur. What can I do for you?”
“Doctor Laurent?”
“Yes, indeed.” Concern came into the doctor’s eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“It’s your daughter.” Lance saw alarm leap into the man’s eyes, and at the same time a woman came to the foyer. She was considerably younger than her husband, he thought, and by the look on her face, she had heard his last statement.
“What is it?” she cried out. “Is there something wrong with Noelle?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” Lance said quickly. “She twisted her ankle and was unable to walk, so I brought her home in a cab.”
“Oh, that was very kind of you, monsieur,” Doctor Laurent said immediately, relief washing into his eyes. “Is it serious?”
“She says it’s not broken, but it’s pretty painful.” Lance hesitated, then said, “I’m Lieutenant Lance Winslow.”
“We’re grateful to you, Lieutenant.” The doctor moved forward. “I will bring her in.”
“No need for that, sir,” Winslow said. “I can carry her.”
“Oh yes. Please do, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Laurent said.
“Bring her into the study where I can take a look at that ankle.”
“Certainly, Doctor.” Lance turned and carefully walked down the steps once again. He did not care to break his own leg in his attempt to help the young woman. Moving to the cab he opened the door and said, “Just swing your legs out. I think I’d better carry you in.”
“Oh, I think I could walk with a little help.”
Ignoring her statement, Lance simply reached in and picked her up again. He turned back to the cabdriver and said, “Wait for me, driver.”
“Oui, monsieur. I will wait until I get paid. That is for certain.”
Lance grinned and turned to face the young woman he was carrying. Her face was only inches away, and he could see that she had lovely features. “Pragmatic chap, isn’t he?”
“Most cabdrivers are.” Noelle was very conscious of his arms around her. As he carefully carried her up the stairs, she turned to see her parents and her younger sister, Da
nielle, waiting anxiously at the door. “It’s all right,” she assured them. “It’s just a twisted ankle.”
Reaching the top of the landing, Lance entered the house. The younger sister closed the door, and he said, “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome, Lieutenant.”
“Right this way, if you don’t mind,” Dr. Laurent said.
Lance followed the doctor and entered a very attractive parlor. It was a large room with blue-and-green wallpaper on the walls, hardwood floors with a large multicolored area rug, and high ceilings painted a bright white. There were three large windows with white sheer lace curtains and blue-and-white drapes falling softly to the floor. The furniture was ornately carved and made of the best woods, he could see, and was covered with various shades of blues and greens. A fire was burning brightly in the fireplace, and the sparks sent a myriad of colors reflecting from the cut glass of the lamps and mirrors in the room.
“Right here on the couch.”
Lance carefully placed Noelle down so that her back was against the end of the settee, her legs stretched out in front of her.
“Thank you very much.” Noelle managed to smile despite the pain. “The next time I fall, I’ll make sure you’re around, Lieutenant.”
“Glad to be of service, mademoiselle.”
Stepping back, Lance watched as the doctor carefully removed the shoe and then with sensitive fingers manipulated the swollen foot.
“That hurts? Yes, of course. Now. Can you move your foot this way?”
“You are a soldier, Lieutenant?”
Lance looked down at the young girl and smiled. “Yes, I am an English soldier.”
“My name is Danielle. I’ve always loved to read about soldiers and battles.” Danielle was a younger version of her older sister. “It’s so romantic.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disillusion you, Miss Danielle, but being a soldier isn’t always romantic. It can be just as boring as what you do. Your schoolwork, for example.”
“No, that could not be,” Danielle said. She was fascinated by the tall soldier who stood before her. His wedge-shaped face was lean, and he had a determined chin. His skin was very fair, and his eyes were a very peculiar shade of light blue, almost like that of a certain wild flower Danielle loved to collect. “Have you fought in many battles?”
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