by Candace Camp
She turned to Philippe, eyebrows raised, and he grinned. “Too grand?”
“I was expecting something more like an old farmhouse or a cottage.”
“Merely a hunting lodge,” he assured her, stopping the car in the circular gravel drive and coming around to help her out.
“A hunting lodge?” Alyssa repeated in disbelief.
“Yes, for some nobleman. This region was a favorite for hunting. There are lots like this. It’s considered rather small, really.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You should have seen it a few years ago when I bought it. It didn’t look so grand then. I’ve had to renovate a good deal. I use only about half the house. The rest is closed off.”
A woman and man hurried down the front steps to greet them, the woman smoothing down a starched white apron. She was middle-aged and rather stern looking, both taller and wider than her husband. Alyssa waited uneasily to meet Philippe’s servants. She had come to like Georges and thought he returned the feeling. She had never seen disapproval in his eyes at her presence in his employer’s apartment nor any sign that he thought less of her for it. But Georges was utterly loyal to Philippe; no doubt Georges thought anything he did was acceptable. Alyssa was not so sure that these caretakers would be as tolerant. Surely here in the country they were more conservative. But as Philippe introduced her to his housekeeper and farm manager, she could see nothing but respect and liking for Philippe and polite interest in her in their eyes.
When Philippe had introduced Monsieur and Madame Dumont, and they had gravely exchanged hellos, Philippe took Alyssa’s hand and led her up the steps into the house. “I’m surprised they’re so…accepting of me,” Alyssa whispered.
Philippe glanced at her in surprise. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Well, I can’t imagine my father or any other man I know having the nerve to take his mistress home.”
Philippe’s brows rushed together harshly. “Don’t be ridiculous. To begin with, they know that it’s no concern of theirs whom I bring home with me. But more than that, you are not my mistress. You’re the woman I love.”
Alyssa’s eyes widened and she came to a halt, staring at him. “Philippe!”
He turned to her. “Surely you don’t think I act this way about every woman for whom I have passing fancy.”
“I don’t know how you act.”
His hands came up to cup her face. “When I met you, I wanted you with a great passion. You were beautiful, desirable. But it was more than that.” His thumbs lightly caressed her cheeks as he looked down into her eyes, his usually cool eyes warm with feeling. “I have never wanted another woman as I did you, even a beautiful one. Even my wife, whom I loved.”
A flicker of pain touched his face and Alyssa smoothed her fingers across his brow, wishing this small gesture could take some of his pain away.
“The more I’ve been with you, the more I’ve realized it was far more than desire I felt for you. I rush home at night to see you. I long to be with you every minute of the day.”
Alyssa smiled, thinking of the long afternoons she’d spent impatiently awaiting his return.
“When I make love to you, I touch heaven. Your smile makes my soul lighter. It pleases me just to hear your voice.” He paused, gazing into her as if he could see to the very center of her being. “I love you.”
He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. “God help me, I love you so much I’ve been foolish and reckless. I knew I should have sent you home for your own safety long ago, when Germany invaded Holland. Certainly I should have put you on a train to Marseilles today. But I couldn’t. I had to have these last few days with you. I had to fill myself up with your sweetness. It’s insanity!” His voice was harsh with barely suppressed emotion. “I couldn’t have found a worse time to fall in love. I want to ask you to marry me, stay with me.”
“I will, I will,” Alyssa whispered, holding him as tightly as he held her. “I love you, Philippe. Please, ask me to marry you. I want to.”
“No!” He pulled away.
Alyssa watched him, frowning. “Why? I love you. I want to marry you. I want to be your wife and share a life together.”
“It’s not a good time. Let’s not talk about it.” He broke eye contact, rubbing the back of his neck.
“But—“
“Please!” He came back to her and took her hands. “Later. We’ll talk about it after we’ve been here awhile. But right now, I don’t want to talk.” He bent to kiss her, his lips urgent and seductive, and any argument Alyssa might have made flew straight from her mind.
*****
The next week was the happiest Alyssa had ever known. She and Philippe rode horses across his land and picnicked by the lake. They strolled through the small formal garden and the trees beyond. She sat curled up in an easy chair reading a book while he worked at his desk. They explored the closed-off sections of the house. They kissed, whispering their love, and usually wound up making love in the huge, canopied bed in Philippe’s bedroom. It was a brief piece of time disconnected from reality; for the moment there was nothing but each other, and they could ignore the war rushing down upon them.
Their moment of tranquility couldn’t last long. The German Army swept into France, moving inexorably to Paris. Two prongs of the German Army rushed straight for the city. And the stream of refugees from the city began. Though Philippe’s home was somewhat off the main road south from Paris, they saw the edges of the exodus—those taking the side roads to escape some of the congestion. There were trucks and cars, carts pulled by people walking, bicycles, even horse-drawn wagons, all piled high with possessions. People stopped by the estate, asking for water, food or shelter, even requesting permission to sleep in the stables. The manager’s cottage was now stocked with packages of essentials for the travelers and there was currently a small group staying in the barn.
Alyssa’s heart was wrenched by the frightened, confused people, unsure where they were going, only knowing they must flee the devil behind them. She kept thinking about Lora and King. Were they stuck in the flood of refugees—or, worse yet, still inside the city?
The only good news they received as the days passed was the report of the evacuation of the English army at Dunkirk, where hundreds of civilian vessels, from pleasure yachts to fishing boats, had ferried the British troops back to England. It had been an almost miraculous recovery and a shining example of the spirit of the British people. But even so, nothing could mask the fact that Dunkirk had been a tremendous defeat for the Allies.
One evening as Alyssa sat in the drawing room listening to the crackling radio report of the latest disasters for the French Army, a dark blue open roadster puttered up the drive and came to a halt in front of the door. Alyssa glanced out the window, mildly curious. Usually the refugees stopped at the manager’s cottage rather than coming straight to the house. There were several people in the car. She saw a glimpse of glittering blond hair.
Alyssa jumped to her feet and pulled aside the sheer curtain, her heart beginning to race. Two men and a woman stepped out of the car. The woman wore sunglasses and a scarf, and she whipped the scarf off her head, shaking her hair out. Platinum blond. “Lora!”
Alyssa ran to open the heavy front door. “Lora! King!”
Lora looked up and smiled, taking off her sunglasses. “Hiya, kid. Thought we’d drop by for a visit.”
Alyssa rushed down the steps to embrace her, then gave King and Claude Freret each a hug for good measure. “I was worried to death about you.”
Philippe stepped out onto the porch. “Madame Gerard. Messieurs. Please, come inside.”
The three travelers were dusty and wrinkled and exhausted. King managed a smile. “We left yesterday. It took us this long to get here.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” Claude answered, waving an expressive hand. “It is madness, utter madness.”
“You can’t imagine,” Lora told Alyssa as they climbed the steps of the house. “People started leaving days ago. We thought we’d wait a while for the crowd to thin, but it didn’t. The road was jammed. You could hardly move an inch. It took hours to go even a few miles. We had to sleep in the car last night.”
“We’d heard it was bad but I didn’t realize…” Alyssa searched for words.
“And that wasn’t even the worst,” Lora went on in a rush. “Outside of Paris, with all the cars almost at a standstill, the German planes flew over and started shooting at us! It was horrible!”
“What!” Alyssa gasped.
King nodded. “They were strafing the roads. No military purpose. Just to frighten and create even more chaos.”
“Alyssa, I saw someone shot! Right there, two cars in front of us. We had to jump out of the car and run to the trees for cover.” Lora’s eyes were wide with remembered horror. “I’ll never forget it till the day I die.”
“How awful this all is.” Alyssa felt like anything she could offer was inadequate. “I’ll have baths drawn for you, and you can have a nice, long soak and a good sleep.”
Alyssa linked her arm through Lora’s comfortingly and led her up the stairs to the second floor, where the bedrooms lay. Claude followed the two women, but King lingered for a moment with Philippe.
“It is very bad, then,” Philippe said, his voice low and drained of emotion.
“Yes. The road to Bordeaux is packed. We’ll split off now to Marseilles, though; perhaps it will be better.”
“Perhaps. You must stay and rest with us awhile.”
“Thank you. Claude’s car needs some work, too. I was afraid we weren’t even going to make it here. When the planes strafed the road, a couple of bullets hit the engine. I managed to patch up the radiator, but it needs a more permanent repair, and there’s other damage as well.”
“I’ll have the farm manager look at it. He works quite a bit with farm engines.”
“Thank you.”
“Are the Germans close to Paris?”
“Days away, I’d say,” King replied. “The army’s in a rout, and the government’s expected to flee any day now.”
Philippe sighed. “Alyssa must go home with you.”
“Of course. We’ll be happy to take her along.” Gerard paused. “You might want to come with us, too,” he said, in a rare tactful moment avoiding what they both knew: soon Philippe’s country would be under the domination of Hitler.
Philippe smiled thinly. “No. I’m afraid I must stay.”
*****
Philippe lay quietly in bed, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He glanced over at Alyssa, who lay on her side turned away from him, sleeping peacefully. He eased out of bed, glancing back to make sure he hadn’t disturbed her, and pulled his shirt and trousers from the chair where he had tossed them earlier. It took him only seconds to dress. Then he opened the door of the wardrobe and took out a pair of heavy work boots. Carrying them and his watch, he slipped through the door into the hall, gently closing the door behind him.
He crept down the hall past the closed doors where the Gerards and Claude lay. They had been here two days now; they would be leaving soon. Tomorrow he must tell Alyssa that she had to leave. He hoped she would let him drive her to Marseilles; he wanted even that extra day or two with her. But he was afraid she would fight so hard against going that they might come to an open rift. There was an ache in his chest at the thought.
At the bottom of the stairs, he sat down and pulled on his boots, then made his way by feel through the dark house and out the front door. Outside, it was only a little lighter; there was no moon. That was the reason for this excursion. He circled the house and cut through the trees. In the woods it was almost pitch black; he wished he could have carried a lantern or flashlight, but that might have attracted attention, and he couldn’t afford that. He ran into a stump and barked his shin and let loose a low string of curses.
He left the woods and crossed a field. Beyond lay a road and another stand of trees. A dark car was parked at the edge of the road. Philippe moved past it into the trees and stood for a moment, trying to discern the shape of a man in the darkness.
There was a disembodied voice, “Hello, Philippe.”
“Hello, Ian.”
A man came forward, Philippe recognized the height and shape, though he couldn’t see the sandy, balding hair or the grave, professorial look that always sat on the other man’s face. Ian Hedley moved closer to Philippe and held out his hand. Metal glittered in his palm. Philippe reached out and took the heavy ring of keys from Ian.
“You got into the factory without trouble?”
“Yes. Your keys were a great help. Your factory’s rubble now.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”
Philippe shrugged. “It’s nothing compared to what I’m about to do.”
“I know. It’s more sacrifice than we have a right to expect from any man.”
Philippe pocketed the keys. “When we began, I thought I wouldn’t care what anyone thought of me. Now I find I do.”
The other man glanced at him sharply. “Are you saying you’re backing out?”
Philippe shook his head. “No. Of course not. I just kept hoping that somehow it wouldn’t come to this.”
“I’ve heard rumors about your personal life…”
Humor touched Philippe’s face for a moment. His teeth flashed in the darkness. “Have you now?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I never dreamed you would meet her; I would have tried to stop her coming here if I had.”
“No. Don’t be. I can’t regret it, no matter how painful it will be. It will be…something for me to treasure in the months ahead. The years.” He quirked an eyebrow at the other man. “Sorry. Am I being too French?”
Ian ignored his last words. “Are you sending her away?”
“Of course. You think I would allow her to stay in this hell? She will be across the ocean, safe at home.”
“You will have to do it soon.”
“I know. I’ll tell her tomorrow.”
Ian hesitated. “I feel there should be something else to say, but…” He shrugged. “I will hear from you?”
“Yes.”
“Good-bye, then… your grace.”
That brought a wry smile to Philippe’s lips. “Good-bye, Pliny.”
They parted. Ian climbed into the waiting car and was driven away. Philippe walked back across the corner of the field and into the trees, as he had come. Before long he was home again, climbing the stairs to his room. Alyssa lay on her back, her pale skin shining in the dark. Philippe shed his clothes quietly and came to stand over the bed, looking down at her. One arm was flung above her head. The sheet had worked down to Alyssa’s waist, exposing her full, pink-tipped breasts.
Philippe sat down beside her, his hand reaching out to clasp her delicate hand. She stirred and her eyes fluttered slowly open. His hand slid over her arm and down her body, memorizing the feel of her skin. Alyssa smiled sleepily at him. He caressed her breast and she made a soft noise of pleasure. His fingers slipped between her legs and the noise became a moan. He bent to take one breast in his mouth, stroking the nipple into life. He moved to the other nipple and aroused it with the same gentle skill. He groaned and buried his face in her neck. “Alyssa, my love, my love.”
His mouth turned fierce on her skin, hungry and searching. He kissed her wildly, desperately, as if he would consume her, and Alyssa responded with an uprush of desire. Her hands moved over his body; his skin was slightly damp and cool. A delicious outdoorsy scent clung to him. Her hands came between them to stroke the hard buttons of his nipples, then slid downward over his abdomen, lingering on the sharp points of his hipbones.
He moved down her body, his mouth touching her everywhere, and came again to her breasts. The suction of his mouth was hard, pulling at the very core o
f her being. Alyssa could feel warmth flooding her and a rising sense of urgency. She moved beneath him, urging him on.
He rose above her. “Say you love me.” His voice was hoarse, barely under control.
“I love you,” she whispered. “You know I love you.”
He came into her then, filling her emptiness. “Love me always,” he murmured against her neck.
“I will.” She shivered at the uncontrollable pleasure of his movements, the rhythmic, hungry, urgent strokes of passion. She moved against him. He groaned, his fingers digging into the sheets beneath her, and began to thrust wildly, driving into her softness again and again. Alyssa felt the familiar urgent force building in her. She ached, she wanted. He trembled with need. Her arms and legs twined around him, and he pressed ever closer, as if they could break through their flesh and merge completely. Then, at last, poised on the abyss, he cried out and poured his seed into her, and the dammed-up pleasure burst its bounds, flooding out to every part of Alyssa’s body.
Philippe collapsed upon her, burying his face in her hair. His hair brushed her skin, damp with sweat. His breath was hard and rasping in her ear. “I love you,” he whispered huskily. “Never forget that I love you.”
Chapter 8
They were awakened the next morning by Madame Dumont’s discreet tapping at the door. When Philippe opened the door his housekeeper held out an envelope.
“Sorry to disturb you, monsieur, but this telegram arrived from Paris. I thought it might be important.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.” He turned and walked toward the bed, slipping a thumb beneath the flap of the envelope to open it.
Alyssa sat up in bed, pushing back her sleep-tangled hair, watching Philippe’s face. Telegrams usually meant urgent news, but his face remained impassive, only a slight flaring of his nostrils indicating that the news affected him. “Philippe? What is it?”
For a moment he didn’t reply. Carefully he refolded the paper and slipped it back into the envelope. “My plant exploded last night and burned to the ground.”
