She thanked Providence that she would be sleeping in a dugout, not in one of the makeshift holes the other enlisted men had scraped out of the trench’s walls. She couldn’t imagine that mud wouldn’t seep into their blankets, no matter the oilcloth tarps or how much scrap wood and paper they crammed in for insulation, and the winter cold would only grow worse. There would be chilblains aplenty, if not frostbite. If they were lucky, the war would end soon, and they wouldn’t have to worry about spending winter in holes in the ground.
The officers’ dugout didn’t have a door yet, only several overlapping layers of heavy canvas. She ducked through, startling Lieutenant Meyer, who hunched over a makeshift table studying a heap of miscellany in the light given by a single stub of candle. She brushed past the coats hung on the dugout’s central support pole and said, “Sir.”
Glancing down at the table, she realized the miscellany had belonged to Ashby—his cap still bore a stain of mud from where Daglish had plucked it from the battlefield. She recognized his penknife, with its silver plate engraved with the regiment’s running-wolf device, and his favorite deck of cards, the ones with photographs of buxom women on the backs. Some of the women wore ribbons in their hair, or perhaps a single garter or a necklace, but nothing else. A hard way to make a living. At least soldiering wasn’t as bad as posing naked in front of a camera, or maybe they didn’t think so. At least a photography studio would be warm. And less likely to explode.
Meyer looked away from her. He rubbed the side of his hand beneath his nose and sniffed. “Is there anything else I should send to his mother? I think—I think he was wearing his wristwatch.”
His voice sounded thick. Lord. He’d been crying. She shouldn’t feel so surprised. Ashby had been Meyer’s friend since boyhood, after all, and today’s incident with a shell had probably reminded him that they would never find Ashby’s body, would never really know how he’d died. Bob couldn’t blame him; after she’d heard Ashby had been killed, she had cried a bit herself, first making sure no one could find her. He’d been so kind and funny, and she’d spent so much time taking care of him, that it was a hard loss to bear, especially when she first saw his things lying about, the little framed photograph of his parents and their dogs, and his shaving kit and such as that. But for her it was not as hard as it would be for someone who’d known him for a lifetime. She wasn’t sure quite what to do. Did she excuse herself, and leave Meyer to his grief? Did she pretend she hadn’t noticed? Or did she offer comfort?
Ashby would have offered comfort. She remembered the hard pressure of his arms around her after Captain Wilks had been killed, his palm holding her face to his chest so she wouldn’t look at the captain’s bloodied corpse anymore. She’d briefly felt his lips against her hair. At the time, she didn’t think he could have guessed she was female; he was simply doing his best for her. One really couldn’t ask for more than that.
She’d been trying not to think about Ashby’s bloodied corpse, or what was probably left of it by now. Having not seen his body, she was free to imagine the worst, as if all the horrors she’d seen up close weren’t enough. It wasn’t fair that someone like Ashby, so full of movement and grace, should be still, that someone so full of life should be dead. It was war, and they knew when they took the king’s shilling that they might be going to their deaths, but she’d never signed anything that said she had to like it. And Meyer, he was a soldier now, but really he was only a bandsman.
Before she could lose courage, she moved in close to Meyer and put her arms around his shoulders, pulling him back so his head rested on her belly, and then held him as tightly as she could.
His breath hitched, and his eyes closed behind his specs. She could see the wet tracks on his cheeks, and his nose looked red. He sucked in a ragged breath, then another. “Sorry,” he said.
“S’all right,” she said. His golden hair looked like sunshine in the flickering light of the oil lamp, warm and honeysweet summer sunshine. She couldn’t resist touching her cheek to it, and once touching it, didn’t want to pull away. She wanted to rub her face against his hair, then against his skin. Her hands were big for a woman’s, but they would fit nicely into his open collar, and she bet herself that his skin was a lot warmer than hers.
It had been years since she’d touched a man’s skin, outside of the ordinary ways relating to her duties. She’d thought she was done with all that when she went into the army, had put it off like her skirts and her long hair. She’d thought about sex sometimes, mostly remembering the men whom she’d loved before she’d taken on men’s clothing: Johnny, who worked down at the pub, and Johnny’s soldier cousin that one time, and Ted, who’d wanted her to marry him though he spent eight months of the year at sea, and dear Rob, who’d died in India. It didn’t seem proper, or safe, to think that way about the men with whom she worked every day. It was better not to remember that she didn’t have a cock between her legs as they did. It was just that Meyer smelled so good, bay and lime overlaying his skin, his skin that she knew would be warm and alive beneath her fingertips, the exact opposite of the cold mud that surrounded them on all sides. Knowing she couldn’t touch him twisted her chest with pain.
Then she thought, Why not?
All her thoughts had taken only a moment. Before she could stop herself, she slipped her hand past the opened top button of his uniform tunic, past the loosened knot of his tie. The linen of his shirt was soft from many washings; she twitched it aside and eased her hand beneath his wool vest, laying her hand flat against his pectoral muscle. She’d been right, his skin was hot. She could feel his intake of breath. He didn’t thrust her away, though, which surprised her. Had Ashby told him her true sex? She hadn’t thought he would break a promise like that, after he’d risked his own life and career to protect her secret. Had Meyer somehow discovered it for himself?
Meyer reached up and covered her hand with his. Though his shirt separated them, she could feel his hand’s warmth through the cloth. He drew breath as if to speak, hesitated, and then said, “Noel told you, then.”
“Told me?” She flattened her hand just slightly, enough so her palm curved against his skin. She felt only the barest hint of chest hair. Blond men didn’t usually have much. Perhaps he had more, closer to the center of his chest. Or lower. She swallowed, trying to remember if she’d ever seen him with his shirt off. He was one of the most physically reticent men in the company. She’d never been sure if that was part of his religion or just part of him.
She’d lost track of what he’d been saying. She startled when he spoke again, his voice vibrating beneath her hand. “About when we were boys. About—what he and I did together.”
His meaning took a few moments to sink in. “Oh!” she said. “No, sir.” She felt a blush heating her cheeks. She hadn’t thought Ashby interested in that sort of thing, nor Meyer, either; then again, boys would fuck anything, given the chance. It ought to have disturbed her, but it didn’t. If she thought about it a little more, Ashby and Meyer together, it wasn’t distasteful to her. She felt more curious than anything else. They’d been so fond and sweet with each other, as much as men showed such things. What had they been like as lovers?
Meyer sighed. “He didn’t tell you. It’s me, isn’t it? It’s something I do.”
“What is?”
“Perhaps I just imagine that I like women. It seems real at the time, but maybe I’m wrong.” As he spoke, his hand idly caressed hers through his vest. She wished he was touching her skin, perhaps lacing his fingers with hers. “Or is it that men like me?” He chuckled softly. “It’s not as if I turn them away. What, nothing to say, Hailey?”
She considered. He would find out soon enough that she wasn’t what she appeared, and in truth his concerns seemed a bit silly to her. She leaned over and kissed his mouth, upside down, a strange sensation given his mustache and the awkwardness of their positions, but sparking with electricity all the same. She flicked out her tongue to taste just inside his lips, and straightened, seeing
spots from the awkward way she’d bent her neck. “’S good,” she said.
Meyer took a quick breath. “It’s not really permissible,” he said. “I’m an officer.”
She considered logistics, and nuzzled his temple, briefly tasting his skin. “You going to tell?”
“I would never do that to you.”
“Knew you wouldn’t. Me, neither.” She slid her hand a little farther down into his shirt, leaning against his back to do so. He did have a bit more hair toward the center. She circled her hand around once and found a nipple, hard as a fingertip. Her own nipples were well hidden beneath the layers of her tunic, her shirt, her vest and her cloth breast bindings, but she fancied she could feel his back muscles against them a bit. She’d like to have her breasts bare and rasping against that little scruff of hair on his chest. The very thought made her wet between her legs. It had been absolutely forever. Her body was yelling at her to get closer to him, and quickly. She tried a little persuasion with her fingertips. “You’ll feel better, after.”
Meyer breathed unsteadily. He said, “You mustn’t feel obligated to improve my morale. I’ve dealt with grief before. I’ll survive Noel’s death, and so will you. We can talk about it.”
“Don’t like talking,” she said. Talking too much was a fast way to betray far too much.
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Not a virgin,” she said. She kissed his ear. “C’mon. Where’s the harm?”
“Fraternization?” he said. “Court martial?”
“Good way to get sent home,” she pointed out, grazing her teeth against the fine skin behind his ear. She was pleased when he shivered, tipping his neck toward her mouth.
“There’s another thing I should tell you—”
“After.” She didn’t like letting go of him, but it looked as though he wouldn’t move on his own. She grabbed his arm and towed him toward the cot shoved against the far wall.
“Wait!” Meyer tugged free of her grip and grabbed a wooden sign from atop a crate. Daglish had made it. It read, Maestro at Work. Please Do Not Disturb. Meyer hung the sign from a loop of twine on the makeshift canvas door, then shoved his chair and a crate against it to make a flimsy barricade.
Bob nodded, approving. “Come on, then,” she said. She began to unwrap her puttees. She was damned if she would fuck a man while wearing boots.
Meyer halted in front of her. “You’re sure about this.” He paused as she sat on the cot, untied her boots and yanked them off. It felt wonderful to have her boots off. He said, “You look sure. You really want this?”
She tipped her head back and examined him. He looked befuddled. He reached out one hand slowly, and brushed her hair back from her forehead. He asked, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“You look a lot younger than that. Tell me the truth now.” His finger trailed down her cheek, which she knew was downy as a child’s.
“Twenty-four, sir,” she said. “Record says nineteen, though.”
Meyer didn’t ask why; usually, boys gave a false age older than their real one. Maybe he was starting to figure it out. He touched the corner of her eye. “I believe you,” he said. Bob grabbed his wrist and put his hand behind her neck. While his fingers played in her hair, she unbuttoned her tunic and the flap of her trousers.
She needed to stand to properly undress. She didn’t want to fuck with clothes on. She might be blown to bits tomorrow. Today, she was going to enjoy being alive. She jerked her chin at Meyer. “Get your kit off.”
“You’re not at all worried about being caught, are you?”
She shook her head. Meyer’s hands went to his buttons. His knuckles were scraped, from when they’d dug out the collapsed wall near the firestep. He always pitched in if there was work to be done, if his duties allowed. She liked that about him. She’d loved Wilks like an uncle, but he’d never gotten his hands dirty if he could help it. Meyer shed his uniform tunic and stopped, noticing her watching him. “What about you? Are you going to stop there?” he asked, challenging but not really. He was, she realized, giving her yet another chance to withdraw.
She stood up and flipped her braces off her shoulders, then shoved her trousers down. It didn’t make much difference, as her gray-back shirt hung down to her knees, and she had a layer of woolen long underwear. She went to Meyer, the dirt floor cold beneath her bare feet, and pulled him down to her for a proper kiss, which he gave without reluctance. His mouth tasted sweet, and she liked the rough brush of his mustache as he nibbled at her lips. She pulled away first. “More later,” she said. She started in on her buttons. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Meyer do the same. When she’d draped her shirt over a crate, he yanked his vest over his head. As his chest was revealed, the hair there caught the candlelight, sparking gold. She did like a man who looked like a man. His torso narrowed down nicely toward his waist, and when he turned she had a fine glimpse of his high, tight rear. She could just imagine her hands on it, his muscles flexing, her fingers digging deep.
Bob hurriedly stripped off her vest and shoved down her drawers, her stuffed sock with them; she quickly tucked that out of sight in the folds of her discarded clothing. The cold air made her scarred shoulder ache, and she rubbed it. She still had to unwind her breast wrappings, and step out of the cropped drawers, her own invention, that she wore to keep her sock from chafing her thigh.
Meyer was struggling out of his boots, hopping on one foot. It was the first time she’d ever seen him be the least bit awkward, and she laughed. Meyer looked up, and stopped, one foot swinging in the air. Gently he put his foot down on the floor again and held out his hand.
She took his hand and placed it on her breast. He swore in a foreign language. She grinned. “Hurry up,” she said.
He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then shook his head, grinned back at her and took his socks off. He looked happier than he had a few minutes before. More than shocked, he’d been relieved she was really a woman. She watched, expectant, as he shoved off his trousers. He wasn’t all the way erect yet, but she could see the shape of him through his drawers, and her mouth and cunt both watered a little, wanting him to fill her up.
He stopped with his hands on the string of his drawers and said, “I want to see, too.”
Abruptly, she felt strange. Since she’d first put on men’s clothes, she’d never unbound her breasts in front of anyone, not even Sister Daglish when she’d cared for her wound. It scared her to think of doing it now. She forced her feet to move, one step closer to Meyer, then another. She took his hand and brought it to the little flat hooks in the middle of her chest.
He seemed to understand. He kissed her softly, and then worked the hooks loose, one at a time. She watched his hands, slender and graceful, with those odd calluses he’d told her came from playing the cello. She hadn’t thought of music as work until she’d known that. She liked that his hands had worked. She could understand the hours he’d spent, mastering a skill as she’d once mastered tailoring jackets.
The last hook slid loose, and he met her eyes, steady and reassuring. “What next?”
“Like this,” she said, unwinding the wrapping beneath her arm, around her back and beneath her other arm. Meyer took the fabric from her hand and continued to unwind it himself. Bob lifted her arms and, after a moment, rested her hands on his bare shoulders, letting him free her. His skin felt hot and smooth. She circled her fingertips on him and his breath caught.
His face was intent as the cloth loosened. She drew a grateful breath and rolled her shoulders; the binding slipped loose, and Meyer caught it in his hand, preventing it from landing on the dirty floor. Without moving his eyes from her chest, he wadded the cloth and tossed it accurately to the crate with her shirt. His hands slid up her ribs and cupped her breasts, so delicately her vision blurred.
She moved her hands atop his and pressed in. He made a small noise of appreciation and his grip shifted and tightened, his thumbs circling o
n her nipples, stirring them to prickling life after their long captivity. She hummed in appreciation. She put her arms around his neck again and pulled him down for a kiss, slick and exploring.
Meyer pulled back first. “Your name isn’t really Robert, is it?”
She thought about teasing him, then decided it could wait. “Isobel,” she said. The name felt strange in her mouth. She hadn’t said it aloud, or had it said to her, in five years at least.
Meyer’s face blossomed into a smile. “That’s lovely.”
She couldn’t quite bring herself to call him Gabriel. She’d heard Ashby call him that once or twice, his voice rich with affection. She wouldn’t remind him of that right now. This was for feeling, not talking. “There’s a cot,” she pointed out, and stripped off her last layer of underthings.
“What about protection?”
Bob sighed. “I got a tonic. So I won’t bleed. All right?”
He cast a nervous glance at the doorway. She grabbed another crate, this one crammed with cookware, and laid it atop the first one in their barricade, shivering when a cold gust blew in under the canvas. She turned back to face him, hands on her hips. Cold air teased her ankles, and her nipples tightened with cold, a sensation she hadn’t felt in a long time. “That better?” she asked.
“Not really,” he said. “Come here.”
This time they made it to the cot, and she got his drawers off, only to be stopped again when Meyer wouldn’t let her yank him down to join her. His cock was interesting, dense and smooth with the veins showing; he’d been cut, his cock didn’t have a sleeve. So that was true, about Jewish men. She liked the way it looked. She was getting impatient to have him inside her; she didn’t want to risk being interrupted before that. The niceties could wait until they were done. She thought about the narrow space, and said, “I’ll bend over.”
“In a few minutes,” he said. “Lie back.”
“But—”
For all his reluctance at the beginning, he certainly liked being in charge. His hands pressed her hips into the blankets, soft blankets that smelled like him, and then rearranged her a little to the side. “Hush, you’ll like this.” He slid his thumbs down the crease of her cunt and her breath hitched at the delicate sensation.
The Moonlight Mistress Page 18
