His anger cut her to the quick. “Every medical person’s hands are busy with more than they can handle. My presence is merely an oddity of fate.” She took a step back, releasing the pressure between them. “I’m here to help, William. Let me.”
His brows bunched together, but he didn’t argue. Good man. Her patience drained, she swept a critical eye down his body to ensure he was still in one piece before turning her complete attention to the motionless boy on a makeshift cot of crates. Pale as a sheet, stained bandages swathed his neck.
Kneeling beside him, Gwyn slipped off her field kit. “What happened?”
“Shot in the neck.” William knelt close to the boy’s head. “Name is Truman. Walter Truman.”
“Mr. Truman? Walter, can you hear me?” Gwyn motioned for the lantern as she pried open each of his eyelids and checked for dilation. From the dulled reaction, he’d lost a lot of blood. “How did it happen?”
“Trying to give himself a Blighty, he did.” One of the men gaggling around snarled. “Did it work for you, eh Truman? Can’t even shoot yourself in the foot proper without dropping the gun first and nicking a neck vein.”
“That’s enough. Back to your posts,” William said. “And if I hear one word of gossip about this, I’ll have your stripes.”
Gwyn dug through her bag and pulled out the small length of precious linen. It wasn’t nearly enough. “Do you have spare bandages?”
William shook his head, the lantern swinging in his hand. “I had to scrounge for these.”
Looking around the tiny space, she tried to locate something, anything applicable. Think, think, think. Reaching back into her bag, she found the scissors and thrust them at William. “Cut my cuffs.”
She almost smiled as he took them and carefully snipped around her wrist. He trusted her enough not to ask questions.
“As soon as I remove this old bandage, lift his head and put the cuff over the wound.” She knotted her other cuff to the end of the linen. “Ready?”
Hands at the ready, he nodded. Pale and motionless, every rational verdict screamed that the boy should be dead, but still the warm stickiness flowed between Gwyn’s fingers. She whipped off the old bandage, and William covered it with the makeshift one. With quick movements, she wrapped a strip of linen around the boy’s neck to hold the bandage in place.
“We need to get him to hospital.” She tied off the strip’s ends into a knot. “Why was he not brought to the dressing station before?”
“Men have been waiting hours, days even, for a medic to come by. At least here someone could look after him.” William’s usually light-blue eyes looked more like dark pools rimmed with black and red. Exhaustion sagged every line in his body.
Gwyn touched his arm, noting her hand was as filthy as his sleeve. “I’m relieved you’re not at the front line. I searched the faces every day …” Her words caught in her throat. “I didn’t know if God would hear me, but He answered my prayers.”
Something flared deep in William’s eyes, startling her. An intensity that she had never seen before, yet understood at once. He leaned close, close enough for his deep breaths to stir the loose hairs across her temple. Heat slashed across her cheeks.
Blinking, he vanquished the moment. “I’ll find stretcher bearers to take him up.”
William cursed himself. What was he thinking? And with a man dying in front of him. Shame pierced him like a hail of bullets. His duty was to protect his men, and that protection failed when he was busy wondering how Gwyn managed to smell of flowers when surrounded by squalor.
“Find me a stretcher.” He barked at two men lingering outside the shelter.
“They’re all at the Front, Captain. Too busy scurrying up and down the COMMS line to pay us any mind.”
Sweat trickled under William’s tin cap. He rubbed the spot in irritation. “Then tie two jackets together and bring them in here.”
Two hours later the sun broke over the blackened ridge. Truman was added to the line awaiting transport to a clearing station. If he made it to hospital by afternoon, he might have a chance.
Gwyn had said no more than six words to him since he’d almost forgotten himself in the dugout. He’d seen his intensity reflected in her eyes. But it was no good, not here and not now. He was accountable to the men and his task which did not include her burnished hair in lantern light, skin that looked like it was carved from cream, and lips that begged for his touch.
Distractions.
Giving into them only spelled misery and disillusion. What if she saw the flaws? The imperfections he struggled against daily? Without the uniform to hide them, she might not like what she found.
But Gwyn wasn’t like anyone he had ever come across. Since the first day he’d met her, she’d made her distinct way of doing things quite clear. She hadn’t needed him on the side of the road, or waiting for her in the rain, or appearing at hospital with hopes of spending time with her.
Steeling himself once more for rejection, he marched to Gwyn’s disabled ambulance. An assortment of tools spread next to her as she hunkered by the flat tire.
At his approach, she sighed heavily. “I appreciate your earlier offer, Captain, but I’m managing quite well on my own. I’m sure your duties have more pressing issues for you.”
“The guns are rather quiet this morning, so I find myself with a minute’s respite. Roland has the command back in the line.” Swooping down, he picked up a tire iron and flipped it over in his hand, measuring its smooth surface against the manageable weight. “Should we run out of bullets and resort to hand-to-hand combat, these should come in quite handy.”
“Exactly what we need.” Gwyn grunted, yanking the inner tube from the damaged tire and inserting it into the new tire another driver had dropped off. “Closeness to look our enemies directly in the eyes.” She worked the tire over the exposed rim as easily as most women worked dough on a counter.
He didn’t want to interrupt her, but the manners deeply ingrained in him refused to let him stand by quietly. “Allow me.” His fingers brushed hers as he reached for the tire. “Your hands need to be saved for more life-saving work.”
She didn’t let go. “I’m an ambulance driver, Captain Crawford. This is my work.”
“And here I thought it was stubbornness.”
Her head turned up, eyebrows drawn together. In the morning light, her eyes glowed like emeralds. “You may call it that, but I call it getting the job done. When was the last time you changed a tire?”
“I’ve shoed my fair share of horses over the years. A tire can’t be that much more complicated.”
“It’s entirely different.”
“And you know this how? Shoe any horses lately?” He tugged the tire. She was stronger than he expected.
She smirked. “Common sense.”
A long shadow loomed over them. “Has anyone ever told you the futility of arguing with a woman, Captain Crawford? You’ll lose every time.”
William leaped to his feet and saluted. The tire plopped to the ground. “General.”
General Ivor Maxse waved him off with an uninterested salute and turned his full attention to Gwyn. “You the field angel I’ve been hearing about?”
Gwyn rose to her feet, wiping her hands on the sides of her trousers. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
His small, deep-set eyes bored into her. “The driver who’s been forced to make herself useful in my fields until her equipment gets fixed. Are you or are you not she?”
“I am.”
“Good. I’m recruiting you. You no longer drive for that duchess, but for me.”
Gwyn shook her head. “Sir, I’m afraid that’s impossible. Lady Dowling—”
“Was not happy when I informed her, but she’ll survive. Pack your bags. You’re moving out with the troops to Trônes Wood.”
CHAPTER 12
Steam seeped from the ground as if the afternoon’s rain had dislodged a pipe under the earth’s surface. Gwyn tugged at her damp collar, releasi
ng the heat trapped behind her neck. Every inch of clothing and strand of hair stuck to her skin, and any part that couldn’t adhere itself like a soggy bandage was caked in muck. Long ago she’d stopped caring what the black and brown mixture consisted of.
Adjusting her position on Rosie’s running board, Gwyn leaned her head back and closed her eyes. They watered in relief. Over a week since she’d slept in a proper bed or eaten a proper meal, and—most disgusting of all—properly cleaned herself. Not that the men noticed. She could dress in a skinned cowhide, and they’d still manage a whistle through their cracked lips. No matter that they marched closer to the danger waiting for them in the woods.
A fly circled her head. She waved it away, but it dived in closer until the rapid wing beats droned in her ear. Pulling a folded envelope from her pocket, she whacked the insect with a solid thunk. It landed in a puddle several feet away.
“Good riddance,” she muttered. “As if there wasn’t enough buzzing in my head.”
She creased the envelope between her fingers, its inner words searing her thoughts more profoundly than the heat.
How very upsetting it is to lose you, Lady Dowling had written, followed by a rant against General Ivor Maxse, the army, the war, the Kaiser, and where they could all march straight to. A postscript instructed Gwyn to return to Maison du Jardins as soon as possible, or the marchioness would see to it personally that General Haig’s sterling military career was reduced to nothing but peeling potatoes.
Gwyn turned the letter over in her hand, tracing the scripted address. Lady Dowling had lifted her spirits, but Cecelia’s tear-stained note haunted her.
My dearest Gwyn, how can they demand such a thing of you? A lady in battle amongst all those men. Can they really expect you to attend them all? And you will be there with my brave William, day and night. It is wholly unfair that you spend so much time with him while I am here. Come back to me safe and sound, for I do not know what to do without you prodding me, and, of course, look after dear William for me.
Heaviness pulled on Gwyn’s heart as she tucked the letters safely back in her pocket. Dear William was arguing for the umpteenth time with his commanding officer a few feet away. His angry voice and sharp gestures did nothing to dissuade the stone-faced man. She was moving out with the troops, and that was final. No tactical arguments or maneuvers were going to change Ivor Maxse’s decision. If she wasn’t so miserable, she could almost appreciate William’s dogged determination to get her kicked off the line.
“Never in all my life have I encountered such stubbornness.” William marched over to her.
Gwyn quirked an eyebrow. “Never?”
William yanked off his Tommy hat and plowed a hand through his hair. It spiked in all directions. “Pardon?”
“I was trying to be ironic. Never mind.”
A mad pulse throbbed in his red splotched neck. “Whoever in all of civilized society thought it a grand idea to bring a female to the heart of battle? And give her no choice about it to boot. The British army never ceases to amaze me with its lack of common sense.”
“Common sense tells me that medics, even third-rate ones, are needed on a battlefield. Seeing how I’m the one with the ambulance, I guess that elects me to the position.”
“The army isn’t a democracy ruled by elections.”
Gwyn rolled her eyes. “Then I gave into my moral obligation and conscience to help those in need without a thought to my personal safety.”
“Precisely. Personal safety. When was the last time you had rifle training?”
“Around the same time they allowed me to vote.”
William’seyebrowsclashedtogetherlikeculminating thunderclouds. “You’re making a mockery of this grave situation.”
“Do you see me laughing about it?” Gwyn sighed and dug the toe of her boot into the dirt. Thank goodness she’d rebuffed Cecelia’s insistence on packing the dainty heeled ones with silver buckles. “I’ve always longed for a new adventure. Somewhere no one else has ever been. In future, I’ll be careful what I ask for.”
The spots of undiluted anger faded from his skin. Squatting in front of her, his gaze pierced her with unfathomable sadness. “You never asked for a press gang into the army.”
“No, but it’s too late to send me back now. I’d be a sitting duck, and you’d be without an ambulance. So, here we are. Together for the time being.”
“Aye, here we are, and here most of my men will stay.” He gouged his fingers into the ground, splaying them wide. “Many of them will be dead in a few hours.”
“You can’t think that way.”
He pulled his fingers from the dirt and pointed to the earthen banks on either side of the road leading to Trônes Wood. Craters dotted the surrounding blackened fields. “This place bears the scars from mere weeks ago. I cannot afford to lie to myself. And neither should you.”
“You think I’m just another silly girl with romantic notions floating in my head of bravery and mending wounded soldiers. Maybe that’s partly true.” She picked at a tear on her knee. Jagged fingernails caught the loosening threads. Filthy and unkempt, she must look a sorry mess. Not that William had said a word about her appearance, but she couldn’t imagine he didn’t wish for her to run a comb through her hair like any normal girl would. A girl like Cecelia.
“I’ve never once thought you silly. Headstrong and idealistic, perhaps.”
“When I was very young, I found several newspaper clippings from Nellie Bly’s trip around the world. Thinking I could do the same, I built myself a hot air balloon from my mother’s pantaloons. I didn’t accept defeat then, and I won’t cave to it now.”
“Between you and me, I’d be disappointed if you did.”
His words pricked her calmness as they continued their march closer to the edge of Trônes Woods. Why did he always say the most unexpected things when she needed to keep him at arm’s length? Her eagerness to not disappoint him hit her like a loaded-down lorry. Since touching foot on war-torn soil, her eyes had opened wide. Then he came along and upended everything she thought she knew about herself.
As the deep blue of twilight settled in the sky, columns of men stretched before her like restless snakes as they stopped for a brief repose. William passed between the lines, pressing a hand to a shoulder here, giving a nod there. The men straightened a bit after he passed them, summoning one final ounce of strength from somewhere deep within. He had found the secret to pulling the impossible from them.
“Get in a spat, did you?” Rosie shifted her weight as Captain Morrison plopped on the seat next to Gwyn. “With Will, I mean. He’s as prickly as a cat pushed in the river. I’ve known him since university, and only two kinds of people make him that way. Seeing how his old man ain’t here, my guess is it’s you.”
Gwyn shifted her gaze to his muddy boot prints all over her floor. “Do you not have troops to inspire?”
“Nope.” He propped one ankle atop the opposite knee. “That’s Will’s calling. See how well he does it? Why would I want to disturb that?”
So you’re not disturbing me. She turned away from staring at the boot prints.
“It’s a shame Miss Cecelia couldn’t join you. Not that you’re unpleasant to gaze upon. Far from it, but I prefer blondes. The dark hair, that’s more for Will.”
Gwyn smoothed back the hair over her ear. Her finger snagged a knot. Frowning, she tugged, but it refused to yield. What she wouldn’t give for a mirror. She’d zealously ripped them from each auto as a precaution against reflections at night. William may prefer dark hair, but surely he didn’t want it resembling a sheep’s coat caught in the briars. Given his penchant for impeccable uniforms, he’d want it perfectly pinned back. She sighed and dropped her hand from the snarls. Smooth hair was overvalued.
“Does she ever ask about me?”
Captain Morrison’s voice pulled her back to the grit before them. “Other than how could you possibly consume a week’s worth of rations in one sitting?”
�
��I did no such thing. The cook said she liked to see a man eat, so I ate.” His face scrunched. “Have you heard her compliment my Oxford vocabulary, or my charming demeanor, my stylish good looks, or that I can tango better than any Argentinian?”
“Sadly, she omitted your tango abilities.”
He slapped the seat. “That’s it. As soon as we return from the woods, I’m organizing a party with punch, canapés, and a full orchestra that will allow me to sweep her off her pretty little feet once and for all.”
“Cecelia is very busy with her nursing duties, so I doubt she has much time to be swept off her feet, wonderful party or not.”
He rubbed a hand along his smooth chin. Somehow, he was the only man without a smudge on his face. “Are you sure it’s not because she has an eye for Will? Or is it because we’re nearly the same height? I can add a bit to my heels if that’s her only qualm.”
“I hardly feel at liberty to discuss the matters of another woman’s heart, particularly her preferred heel height.”
“You’re dodging my question.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re also dodging all my mentions of Will, though why I’m speaking of such a strapping man to the only girl in miles is beyond me.”
A smile pulled at Gwyn’s lips. “Perhaps the miles slack your standards, even for dark hair.”
“You are hardly a slack in standards, Miss Ruthers. Quite the opposite.” Grabbing her hand with a flourish, he raised it to his lips for a loud kiss.
“Hard at work, I see.” William leaned against her open door, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Heat burned its way across Gwyn’s face as she pulled her hand back.
“Morale is important, old chap,” Captain Morrison said, not the least bit ruffled. “Every troop deserves a moment of the commander’s time. And that includes our lovely driver.”
“Captain Morrison was just practicing his charm until he can put it to good use on the fluttering hearts back home,” Gwyn said. “He seems to think I’m an adequate substitute, which is hardly the case.”
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