Time went away, and memory and the future with it. Crispin felt as if he were floating, having left his exhausted, battered, dirty body somewhere below. Don’t stop, he thought. Never stop. He couldn’t summon the words to his lips. Meyer might have heard his thoughts, they were pressed so close. His mouth came back up to Crispin’s and he kissed him softly again, his tongue’s caress like strokes down Crispin’s belly. He nibbled at Crispin’s lower lip and thrust in his tongue a bit harder, and there came a terrible thump. Sounds and smells rushed in: ragged breathing, a rattle of sliding dirt and stones, fetid slippery mud and smoke. Time jolted forward, seizing his muscles with fear, and with the fear a rush of blood to his cock.
The ground shuddered again. Another impact, a nearer one, vibrating his bones in his body. Crispin could smell the smoke already. Fear flushed through him, chilling his skin. “Hush,” Meyer murmured, “hush, I’ve got you—”
Crispin tried to crawl inside Meyer’s body, scrabbling for a hold, any hold. Meyer’s arms wrapped him, confined him, but that wasn’t enough. Crispin dug with his knee until his leg was clasped tightly between Meyer’s, then threw his other leg on top, pinning them both to the ground. His erection slammed against hardness, hipbone or a twin erection, he wasn’t sure and didn’t care, because for a moment it felt so good that it took him away from this place and back to the other place where only their two bodies existed.
Meyer would pull away any second now, he would, and Crispin would die. Frantic to keep this contact, he tightened his grip, arms and legs both. Meyer couldn’t leave him until this was finished. Then they could die, he didn’t care. His cock felt swollen to twice its size and so tender he couldn’t imagine touching it. His trousers’ grip on it was torture. At the same time, he ground it against wool, buttons, hard flesh, anything to ease his torment.
Please. Please. Please. Almost. Almost there. Almost. He thrust up, sawing against hardness and gasping for breath now. Meyer panted in his ear. He was speaking in between gasps, words Crispin couldn’t make out; he could only feel damp hot breath and imagine it on his straining cock. He thrust desperately, again, again—he could feel the end barreling through him, from the soles of his feet up to the top of his skull, and he couldn’t breathe until he came, harder than he could ever remember coming in his life, his cock still trapped against the buttoned flap of his trousers and pulsing there like an animal trying to escape, spurting everything out of him, terror and strength all together. And then even the scream of Minnies over his head couldn’t budge his muscles, and the world went black.
Crispin actually slept through the next half hour, missing it when the noise stopped. He only woke when, impossibly, Ashby’s voice called out Meyer’s name, then Crispin’s, and he bounded blithely down into the shell hole as if he were on a country ramble. It wasn’t so dark Crispin couldn’t see the look that passed between the other two men. Ashby knew, or guessed, what had happened between them, but wasn’t going to speak of it. And Meyer, it seemed, wasn’t going to speak of it even to Crispin.
He knew this game well, and hated it with every ounce of his being. If he’d had the slightest excuse he would have picked a fight with Ashby, just to vent his rage at the other man’s untimely interference. If Ashby hadn’t come along, he and Meyer might be talking right now, in the dark, under the stars and the distant light of occasional shells. For once, he might have been able to have a conversation with a man after he’d had his tongue in his mouth. But no. Ashby had decided to come along and rescue them, and then look innocently ignorant of any criminal activity while gently binding up Crispin’s ankle. Crispin felt a creeping jealousy to realize that Ashby probably only realized what had happened because he was so close to Meyer. And he cared for him enough to protect him.
Crispin had to accept Ashby’s support as he limped back to the company; Meyer trailed behind, carrying the rifle Ashby had brought. Crispin didn’t speak. After an attempt or two at conversation, Ashby gave up, and led them back through a pocked hell of splintered trees to a newish trench, never once stumbling—and saving Meyer from skidding into a nasty puddle that contained half of a corpse. Once Crispin was ensconced on a crate of canned peaches, with Joyce looking after his ankle and the new company terrier solicitously licking his hand, Meyer spoke to Ashby and then scrambled out of the trench, presumably to look for more of the men. It was a great pity, Crispin reflected, that he hadn’t fallen for Ashby instead. At least Ashby might not have pretended nothing had happened.
Hailey skidded to his knees, sheltering behind a shattered cottage wall while a few Minnies winged overhead. This hamlet reminded him of the ones they’d seen on their way into France, full of cheering people who gave them cigarettes and flowers and loaves of bread. Now it was devastated, all the people gone, gardens trampled, animal corpses bloating in the streets, houses and churches shot to pieces by the guns. His company and several others, their numbers sadly reduced in the last couple of weeks, had been fortifying the place as best they could and taking potshots at the Germans who were holed up on the banks of the river Marne. But after today’s bombardment, it was strategic retirement once again.
Lieutenant Smith was missing. Hailey had to find him and pass on Captain Ashby’s orders; if it were Daglish missing, he would be smart enough to come in on his own, but Smith was more likely to hare off so he could bag another souvenir of the enemy. Pittfield was with Smith, or had been earlier, and he was a canny sort, so maybe it would be all right, but unlike everyone else, Smith didn’t always listen to Pittfield. And there was Lincoln to consider; no one had found Lincoln yet when Hailey had set out.
Because he was terrible at cards, Lincoln owed Hailey a guinea sixpence, enough for a new overcoat. Hailey was damned if he would allow that debt to go unpaid, with winter coming on and no sign of going home anytime soon. He hoped Lincoln was with Smith and Pittfield, because he didn’t relish staying out much longer. It was already dusk, and the idea of tramping across broken ground in the dark alone sent chills right down to his feet.
The Minnies died off and, cautiously, Hailey quartered the village, peering into any sheltered spot just in case anyone lay there wounded. He didn’t fear finding the enemy, at least not yet. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to march forward under their own guns. He found one dead man, a Frenchman in red trousers, now stained brown with dried blood. He took a few moments to extract the man’s identity papers, or what looked like them, and stack some fallen bricks over the top half of the body. He didn’t have the courage to look at the man’s face. He didn’t want to see it in his memory as it disappeared under rubble, brick by brick.
A rattle like a sewing machine split the air and Hailey dropped onto the remains of someone’s kitchen garden before he realized the sound hadn’t been that loud, just confusing in the way it had bounced off walls and rubble. The machine gun had to be down the road, and probably belonged to the enemy, and they had to be shooting at someone. Possibly Lincoln, who owed him a guinea sixpence, or maybe even sevenpence. Lincoln would have stuck to Pittfield like glue if he’d found him, and Pittfield wouldn’t have abandoned Smith to blunder around on his own. Hailey took a couple of good deep breaths and dropped into the ditch running alongside the road. He’d have a look.
A rifle popped, then another and another. Hailey lay in the ditch. He heard shouting in English and equipment clanking before there were more shots, then a motor groaning, the familiar protests of a lorry stuck in the mud. Were the enemy shooting at the lorry?
The shouting sounded ordinary now, not battle yelling. Cautiously, Hailey scrambled out of the ditch. He’d barely taken a single step when a bee whined past, then another, and he half spun round, his arm going numb. “Bugger,” he gasped, staggered and fell to his knees.
Noel felt a bit like a sheepdog as the men of the company trickled in. Daglish was eyeing him worriedly, so Noel gave him a bright smile and a clap on the shoulder, then paced up and down in the guise of keeping an eye out. He was practically jumping out of his s
kin with the desire to search out more of his men, circle them and shepherd them back to safety, especially the younger ones, especially Hailey, who was running around without even a rifle for protection. Not that this trench was entirely safe; a single shell could wipe them all out. But Noel couldn’t do anything about that.
The company terrier barked at him and rolled onto his back. Noel crouched and caressed the animal’s wiry coat, his every sense alert for the sound of approaching footsteps.
He managed not to show any reaction when Gabriel arrived, leading Lyton, Mason, Southey and Woods. Woods’s arm was bound up close to his chest, but wasn’t bleeding any longer. Noel sent Joyce to have a look at the wound and took Gabriel aside. “Any sign of Smith? Or Hailey?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No one’s seen Hailey. I’m a bit worried. He knows where to meet us?”
“He was carrying the word.”
Pittfield arrived next, using his Enfield as a makeshift crutch, and bearing ill news. “Smith’s dead,” he said, not wasting time softening the blow. “Hailey went after him, couldn’t manage it, he’s such a little thing. Took a bullet in the shoulder.”
“Where is he?” Noel demanded, suddenly short of breath. “And why aren’t you with him?”
“Stretcher bearer helped him. He was on his way to a truck. Lincoln is wounded, too, and went with him. I’m not hurt so bad—”
“The fucking hell you’re not, that’s why you’re abusing your weapon. Get that leg taken care of.” Pittfield stared at him.
“I can bloody well curse if I want to,” Noel growled. “Joyce! Come and help Pittfield.” He turned to Gabriel. “You’re in charge. I’ll be back.”
Gabriel stared at him.
“I’ve got to go after Hailey.”
Gabriel stared some more. Daglish had caught some hint, and was looking in their direction.
Noel touched Gabriel’s arm. “Go and tell Daglish about Smith. I’ll be back before morning.”
“If you get yourself killed on some idiotic stunt, I will fucking kill you a second time,” Gabriel said.
“Hailey needs me,” Noel said. He grasped Gabriel’s shoulder and gave him a little shake. “This is important.”
Gabriel sighed. “That boy is more competent than a lot of the older men. He’ll manage a ride to hospital on his own.”
“I have to make sure.”
Gabriel sighed. “Fine. But you’d better be back before I have to explain your absence.”
“Done.” Noel winked and grinned, then turned and sprinted off. He had to find Hailey, and quickly.
12
“SISTER, IT REALLY IS RATHER URGENT THAT I find Hailey.”
Lucilla barely glanced at the officer, who was filthy but unwounded. “I’m busy, Captain. Perhaps one of the porters can help you.” She checked beneath a bandage, sniffing discreetly, then patted the man’s shoulder. “You’ll do.” She moved to the next in line.
“He’s not very large. Brown hair, brown eyes.”
She ignored this. Unless Matron told her otherwise, she refused to ignore new patients in favor of a single officer with a ridiculous request. He could easily find someone else to help him. That was the purpose of porters and orderlies and VADs—Voluntary Aid Detachments—to handle simple tasks so she could get on with nursing.
“I’ll wait,” said the voice behind her. “Hailey’s wounded, you see. He’s my batman.”
“This is the right place for him, then. Someone will see to him,” Lucilla said absently as she scribbled a note and tucked it into the next soldier’s tunic pocket, reassuring him when he looked alarmed.
Ten minutes later, she’d forgotten about the captain. The current batch of VADs was efficient in cleaning the men up and, with the help of orderlies, getting them into beds, but there simply weren’t enough of them, leaving more work for the nurses. Lucilla took charge of the abdominal wounds. When a khaki-clad soldier appeared at her shoulder to hold basins, she was able to move more quickly, and finished before midnight.
She closed her eyes and stretched, careful not to touch her uniform with her dirty hands. At last she could apply some lanolin to her cracked skin.
“Sister, I hate to bother you, but—”
Lucilla turned and stared. “You’re still here?” she asked. Her helper was the captain from earlier in the evening, whom she’d been too distracted to speak to. He must truly be desperate, to help her with some of her nastier tasks. She said, “One of the porters could probably have told you where to find the boy. Aren’t you due back at your battalion?” She peered more closely at his cap badge. He was from Crispin’s regiment. A momentary rush of cold fear took her breath, until she realized that if the captain had brought bad news, he would have said so immediately upon arrival.
“Sister, may I speak to you privately? Briefly,” he added. “Very briefly.”
He’d helped her when he didn’t have to do so. Most wouldn’t have bothered; they would have gone to Matron and demanded. Lucilla sighed. She ought to reinforce good behavior. “Outside,” she said. “Only for a moment. But I have to wash first. You’d better wash, too.”
Chill had descended with the night. The air outside smelled clean, though, which improved her mood immeasurably. She pressed her hands in the small of her back and stretched, looking up at the stars. If not for the shelling, and her importunate visitor, it might have been a lovely night.
“I wasn’t able to find Hailey in any of the wards,” the captain said. “It’s important that I locate him.”
He’d washed his face as well as his hands. His cropped coppery hair looked as if he’d run wet fingers through it. Outside in the clean air, she was more aware of the scents that clung to him: dirt and sweat and gunpowder, all layered beneath the strong soap they used in the hospital. She noticed sharply angled eyebrows, freckles, a long nose, a lush mouth that looked as if it belonged on a woman but wasn’t the least bit feminine. His stance and facial expression made her imagine he didn’t have much trouble obtaining the loyalty of his men. Perhaps that loyalty went both ways.
“You’re sure he was sent here?” she asked.
“Absolutely. He was wounded this morning, in the arm, and my sergeant saw him on a truck heading here. Sister—I didn’t catch your name—”
“Daglish,” she said. “And you?”
He looked at her strangely for a moment, his nostrils flaring, then said, “Ashby, Noel Ashby.” He stuck out his hand. She shook it, and he didn’t let go as he continued to speak. “You’re Lieutenant Crispin Daglish’s sister, aren’t you? That must be why I chose you. Your brother’s fine, just a twisted ankle today.”
Lucilla reclaimed her hand. Captain Ashby had heavily callused palms, which she rarely encountered in an officer; they’d sent a warm shock up her arm.
He said, “I’m afraid Hailey might not have entered the hospital. I was hoping someone could help me look for him. Discreetly.”
A thought occurred to her. She asked, “You think he’s deserted?” That offense earned a penalty of death. She could understand him wanting to prevent a young man’s death.
Ashby shook his head vigorously. “I think he’s hiding from the doctors. But he can’t do that, even if he’s not much wounded. He could die of gangrene.”
“I think you have a little time before you need fear that,” Lucilla noted. “Still, it’s not good to wander about bleeding.”
“Can you keep a secret, Miss Daglish?”
She blinked, trying to keep up with Ashby’s lightning shift of topic. “What sort of secret?”
“Hailey is, well…he has a reason to hide. Hailey’s not a man. He’s a young woman.”
Lucilla blinked again. “Don’t tell me no one noticed. Not least the recruiting office.”
“I noticed,” Ashby said. “He’s good, though. I only noticed because…because we’re in such close quarters. He doesn’t know I know.”
Lucilla stared. So far as she could tell he appeared perfectly serious. “And you did noth
ing? Is this some sort of joke?”
“He’s an excellent batman,” Ashby said.
She folded her arms across her chest. “This had better not be a joke, or I will cause you to be very, very sorry.”
“I wouldn’t joke about one of my men!”
Unless he could control the color rising in his cheeks, Ashby was genuinely outraged. Or embarrassed at being caught out in his game. “Prove it. How did you find out this batman of yours was a girl?” If there even was a batman. But then, if not, why spend this entire evening holding noxious, heavy basins?
Ashby straightened. Until that moment, she had not noticed he only topped her height by a few inches. “Please help me to find her.” His face glowed with sincerity and an almost feral attraction. She felt the urge to reach out and touch him, to see if he was real, and shook it off. She’d obviously been on her feet too long.
“I doubt she even exists,” she said. “Come now, Captain. Your joke is over. Go back to your battalion. I would think you would have a little respect for the medical staff. If you go now, I won’t report you.”
“I’m already in trouble if anyone finds Meyer in charge instead of me. Now, for the last time, will you help me find Hailey?”
“How did you know he was a girl?” she countered.
For a split second, she thought he might leap at her, and she tensed. Then he grinned, loose and friendly, as if he’d been presented with a plate of his favorite dinner. She wasn’t sure if his smile was forced or not, but she felt its impact as a slow caress on her skin. She’d been right about the magnetism. He said, “I knew Hailey was a girl because she smelled like a girl.”
The Moonlight Mistress Page 14
