A Timeless Romance Anthology: European Collection

by Annette Lyon

  Finnish staff members still buzzed about, rushing to and fro, collecting more objects they could use as weapons. He sent a silent prayer upward that the telephone lines hadn’t been cut, so the call for backup troops had been received. They were the only hope of the camp, and, likely, of the entire Finnish nation.

  Anna squeezed his arm. “Pete. Tell. Me. Why did they stop attacking?” Her tone brooked no argument. He might as well tell her now anyway; she’d learn for herself soon enough.

  Pete studied her and had a sudden realization that Anna could handle the information. She had more strength in her five-foot frame than he’d given her credit for, in character if not in body. As he tried to put the images into words, the horrors returned to the fore of his mind. If he’d doubted why the Russians had stopped their attack, the memory of their faces erased it.

  “The Russians are starving,” he said simply. “They stopped attacking to… eat soup.” The words were true, yet they didn’t convey— not remotely— what he’d seen in the haunted eyes of the Red army.

  “Let’s go,” Anna said, shifting directions, pulling Pete away from the path leading to the dugout and back toward the mess tent— the battle area.

  “No.” Pete planted his feet and pulled her toward him.

  Anna turned to face him, her eyes steely. “We’re here to do a job. To witness and report. I don’t know about you, but I intend to do my job.”

  She wrenched her arm from his and marched, stumbling a bit, into the darkness in the general direction of the mess tent. Pete stood there, debating what to do. Anna was a strong woman. He shouldn’t treat her like some fragile flower. Yet he didn’t want to see her put into a dangerous spot, especially if he could prevent it.

  Yet she was right; reporting on this war was why they were here. One thing he loved about Anna was how determined she was to do a professional, top-notch job. He’d never known a more passionate journalist, whether her assignment had been to cover a library event or a city government scandal. She always did the best job possible, and she’d worked her way up to better, harder jobs— she’d earned a level of prestige.

  Helplessly, he watched her slip into the darkness, knowing that he had to let her do this. He still debated: should he go after her? They were a team, after all. Or, he could probably make it back to his dugout for his equipment so he could snap a few photos— although he’d need to use a flash, which would certainly draw unwanted attention from the fighters. But maybe it would blend in with rifle flares when the fighting resumed.

  He looked to his left, in the direction of the dugout then back toward the path Anna had taken. The job could go hang; he wanted to be with her, at her side, if only to be sure she was safe. He debated for only a moment, but it was long enough for the fighting to pick back up and become ferocious. Lantern, flashlights, and rifle flashes lit up the night like some kind of sick fireworks display. He spotted bayonets used to skewer men and leave them to die on the ground, gored like an animal. Pete brought a hand to his mouth, sure he’d be sick.

  Several Finnish men running past him, carrying hand-sized bottles with liquid inside— Molotov cocktails, the poor soldier’s grenade. Word said the State Liquor Board in Helsinki had sent cases of bottles to the front for just this purpose, and the makeshift bombs had done their fair share of incapacitating tanks and causing other chaos. All well and good on paper, and when soldiers were throwing them into those air vents. But not here, in the vast expanse of night.

  A soldier at some distance lit a cocktail and hurled the burning bottle through the darkness. Pete wanted to yell at the man to be more careful; he could hit a tent. Or a dugout. The soldier moved to light another cocktail. Before he finished, Pete set off at a dead run in the direction Anna had disappeared.

  But the bottle arced and exploded. Pete stumbled to a stop as a shocked cry rang out, and a cry that soon escalated into shrieks of pain— female shrieks.

  Please, God, no!

  Caring nothing for the fighting going on around him, Pete rush forward, dodging Finnish and Red soldiers locked in hand-to-hand knife combat, homing in on the sound of Anna’s cries. This camp had plenty of other women around— nurses and secretaries and typist and Lotta Svärd, the female war support group members.

  But Pete knew the inhuman cries didn’t come from any Finnish woman. The next words he heard confirmed his fears

  “Help! Oh, it hurts!”

  A burst of energy went through Pete. He ignored the brutal slashing feeling that went through his lungs with every breath. He forgot the bitter cold, the darkness, and the reality that he could be on the receiving end of a bayonet. He had one thing as his focus, and one thing only: to reach Anna.

  He found her a couple of yards from a tent, her skirts aflame from a Molotov cocktail gone astray. She half sat with one arm propped under her as she vainly reached for enough snow to put out the flames. Pete raced to a snowbank and scooped an armful of the white stuff, which he unceremoniously dumped it onto her legs, followed by another and another. He dumped snow, and she moved it about until they were certain the flames were out. She sat there panting, face a mask of pain. He wanted to add more snow, knowing that the heat in her burns would still be there, but something stopped him— the memory of the frozen man in the forest.

  Anna began shaking hard, whether from the pain, exhaustion, or cold, he couldn’t tell. Perhaps all three. Pete knelt beside her and cradled her head against his chest, stroking her face and whispering, “You’re going to be all right.”

  He knew now, as he never had, that he couldn’t live without Anna. Break his camera and send him to live in a hut in the middle of the wilderness, and he’d be happy, as long as Anna was with him. He’d have to convince her to take him back, to give him another chance to prove himself. He give her any life she wanted.

  Anna moaned in agony. Pete looked around frantically, trying to find something he could do to ease her suffering. “Pete…” Anna said weakly, and she slipped into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Six

  A heavy weight seemed to fill Anna’s mind, as if she were at the bottom of the ocean, trying to break the water’s surface. She blinked, in an attempt to gain her bearings. Where was she? What had happened?

  Sharp pain shot through her legs and hand, making her suck breath between her teeth.

  Right, I’m burned. That much came back to her, but nothing else seemed to make sense. She opened her eyes and saw her own breath. Why was the room so cold?

  This isn’t home.

  The full truth came back in a horrid rush. She was thousands of miles from home. She was alone, except for Pete, who didn’t want her. She remembered that moment behind the trees, when it seemed that maybe Pete did still care, that maybe he’d even kiss her there in the snow. But now she was burned. Would she walk again? Be able to travel with Pete after all? Was her face burned? She thought of the words they’d exchanged only moments before she’d been struck.

  If he thought of reconciling before, he’s surely changed his mind.

  She was probably a cripple. How could a man— any man, let alone her beloved Pete, who climbed and hiked and traveled the world— want her now? She simultaneously wanted to see how bad it was and never wanted to look at her body again. The future rolled out before her, empty, desolate.

  If I’m a cripple, even my career is over.

  She found herself groaning from both physical pain and inner heartbreak. She turned her head on the flat pillow and saw several more beds in a long row, each holding someone injured. She grew more conscious by the moment; the hospital smells hit her in a wave as she fully comprehended where she was— the same field hospital tent she’d visited… had it been only yesterday? Or was it today? What time and day was it?

  “I think she’s awake.” A feminine voice, tinged with a pleasant, familiar accent. Kaisa, perhaps?

  Rushed footsteps sounded, followed by the legs of a wooden chair dragging on the floor. “Anna,” came a soft voice. “It’s Pete. Can you hear me?
”

  Her heart leapt at the sound of his voice, but fell almost immediately. She would not be the object of his pity.

  She turned her head the other direction. “Go away.” Her voice croaked. Speaking just those two words seared her throat, and she winced.

  “Here.” Pete reached over to her lips and pressed a moist sponge to them.

  The drops of water trickling into her mouth felt like manna from heaven. She breathed deeply in relief.

  “You gave us quite a scare,” Pete said.

  Anna ventured a look at him. He sat beside her bed, leaning close, his arms against his thighs. He swallowed hard, making his Adam’s apple bob. He did pity her. He clearly felt obligated to stay with her now that she was ugly and wounded and...

  Yet she couldn’t look away; this might well be her final chance to look at him. She tried to memorize every hair— the cowlick by his right temple, every line— the crinkles by his eyes, even the tiny mole by his chin, so she could recall it all one day when she’d need the comfort.

  Pete pressed the sponge to her lips again, soothing her parched throat. “Anna…” His voice trailed off, and he looked over his shoulder as if making sure no one was listening.

  An ache went through her at that; he was embarrassed to be with her, but she knew he was too noble to be a “coward” again. He’d stay even though her legs were scarred, damaged— maybe crippled.

  He leaned forward and whispered. “Kaisa says you’re too fragile for me to talk to yet, but she doesn’t know the strong spirit inside that I do.”

  Anna furrowed her brow. This wasn’t what she’d expected. She braced herself for whatever was coming; it couldn’t be good if Kaisa worried she wouldn’t be able to tolerate it.

  “The moment I saw you in the medical tent, I knew— knew— I’d done the most foolish thing a man can— I let you go. Pushed you away. I thought I was being noble and good, making sure you were free to have a life I assumed you wanted.”

  A tiny pinprick of hope flickered in her heart.

  “Anna, I almost lost you last night,” Pete said, his voice suddenly thick. “And part of me nearly died too.” He shook his head vehemently. “I can’t risk that ever again. If you’ll have me…” He knelt before her bed and pulled out a small piece of granite with wire clumsily wrapped around it, formed into a makeshift ring. “I’ll find something better when we’re out of this place, but if you’ll give me the honor of your hand, make me the happiest man alive by being my wife, I promise to make you happy, whatever and wherever that means.” He held up the wire and stone and waited expectantly.

  Anna blinked, sending tears into her hairline and onto her pillow. She wanted to cry out that yes, of course she’d marry Pete. But doubts made her hopes collapse like a falling house of cards. “I can’t be the wife you deserve.” Even that much tore at her throat.

  “Stop that right now.” His jaw tensed, and his nostrils flared. “If anything, I don’t deserve to have someone as amazing as you. Please.”

  Her heart fluttered in her chest, but she had to be sure. “Get Kaisa,” she rasped.

  Pete blinked and blinked again. That clearly wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. “What? Why?”

  “Just… please.”

  He slipped the ring into his shirt pocket and waved Kaisa over. The nurse came into Anna’s view, leaning over the bed.

  “Can I get you anything? How is your pain?”

  Anna had other ideas. She glanced at Pete then looked at Kaisa again. Painfully, she managed to lift one burned and bandaged hand and motion for Kaisa to draw nearer. Finally, Anna could whisper into the nurse’s ear without Pete hearing.

  “Does he pity me?” It was a simple yet loaded question, but one Anna had to know the answer to.

  Kaisa pulled back knowingly but stayed close, inches away. She shook her head as she whispered back, “Not as you mean. He has been— how you say— beside himself. Walking up and down hospital, praying, begging God to let you live so he could have one more chance.”

  “Does he stay because it would be bad to leave me… wounded and ugly?”

  A warm smile spread across Kaisa’s face. “English doesn’t have a strong enough word for no to answer that. In Finnish, I would say not just ei, but eikä. He cannot bear the thought of not being with you for always.”

  Warmth flooded Anna’s chest and spread throughout her body. “Thank you,” she said, more mouthing the words than saying them.

  Kaisa nodded. “You are very welcome,” she said, straightening.

  Pete nearly jumped out of his seat at that. “Please don’t tease me,” he begged of Kaisa. “Do you mean Anna… that she…”

  Kaisa just grinned. “Ask her yourself.”

  Flushed bright pink, and looking more alive than he had since Anna first saw him in this very room, Pete turned to her and got back on his knee. He held out the ring and silently pleaded. His eyes were ringed with red, and he looked ready to cry. “Please say yes.”

  Heart pounding near to bursting, Anna smiled and managed, “Yes, Pete. I’m yours. Always.” She wanted to say so much more, but was too weak.

  Her left thumb was the only digit on that hand without a bandage. So he took the “ring” and pried the wire open a bit more then eased it onto her thumb.

  “You won’t pity me?” she asked, needing to hear the words from his own mouth even as she looked at her ring.

  “Only that you’re tied to a sop like me.” Pete grinned, leaned in, and kissed her long but gently on the lips.

  “I’ll follow you anywhere,” she said.

  “Even to war, apparently.” Pete chuckled and looked around them. His voice lowered. “You won’t be able to shake me. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth and back again.”

  With one more kiss, Anna’s heart soared, and she knew there was nothing that would make her happier than being married to Pete. No matter where that might take them.

  Author’s Note

  The Winter War began with a Soviet invasion and air raid on November 30, 1939. More Soviet soldiers crossed the border that first day than the Finns had in their entire army and reserves combined. Stalin claimed the action was in part to protect Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) if Hitler decided to invade.

  On the night of December 10, Russians penetrated the Finnish line. As described in the story, the starving soldiers were distracted by sausage soup cooking in the Finnish kitchens. The delay in fighting, during which the Russians ate, allowed the Finns to regroup, get reinforcements, and fight back. Had the Russians continued their attack, the war would likely have ended quickly with a Soviet victory. The events of that night were later dubbed “The Sausage War.”

  Soon after the Winter War began, the League of Nations kicked out the Soviet Union, and the world’s attention turned to cheering on plucky little Finland battling Soviet Goliath. The Finns held on, refusing to surrender as they waited for promised aid from many countries. No significant aid ever arrived.

  The Finns paid a high price for resisting Stalin. Under the terms of the ceasefire, they lost hundreds of square miles, which to this day are under Russian control. But even Stalin couldn’t call the result a victory. First and foremost, he lost the respect of the world at the expense of his people. Khrushchev later quipped that Russia got just enough land to bury their dead, and he estimated their losses at a million soldiers over the 105-day conflict.

  Thanks to their sisu, Finland became the only country bordering the Soviet Union to retain its freedom and never fall to communist rule.

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  Annette Lyon is a Whitney Award winner, a two-time recipient of Utah’s Best in State medal for fiction, and the author of ten novels, a cookbook, and a grammar guide as well as over a hundred magazine articles. She’s a senior editor at Precision Editing Group and a cum laude graduate from BYU with a degree in English. When she’s not writing, editing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding the sp
ots on the kitchen floor. Find her online at http://blog.annettelyon.com and on Twitter: @AnnetteLyon

  by G.G. Vandagriff

  Chapter One

  England—1817

  Lady Melissa Burroughs, Countess of Oaksey, repeated her new name to herself as her husband’s carriage bowled through the countryside on its way back to London from Gretna Green.

  “Happy?” he asked, his gloved hand over hers, his luminous dark eyes warm with their new intimacy.

  “Blissfully,” she assured him, putting her other hand on top of his.

  “You do not regret that you have not had a grand wedding in Town, but only an uneducated blacksmith’s service over the anvil?”

  Melissa thought about this before replying. “I think not, Thomas. If you knew my mother, you would understand why I have always dreamed of eloping.” She smiled and teased his irresistible dimple with her fingertip. “Our marriage concerns the two of us, not yards of satin, Mama’s megrims, or Papa’s bombast. Besides, I am very put out with him for having tried to marry me off to Lord Trowbridge, who did not love me in the least. It will take me a long time to forgive Papa for that.”

  “Now he must forgive you for marrying me.”

  “That will not be a problem,” she teased him merrily.

  “Even though I am virtually a pauper?”

  Melissa was startled. How could she not have known this fact? Probably because she had not spent time with the earl above three or four times before he suggested they elope, thus escaping her forced engagement to the man who wanted to marry her best friend. Lord Trowbridge had supposedly compromised her, but it had all been a misunderstanding, and Melissa could not bear to stand between him and Sophie.

  All she had thought about was how vastly pleasant it would be to marry this man. His mere presence made her heart glad; his slightest touch enflamed her.