The Moonlight Mistress

by Victoria Janssen

  The door of their small room had barely closed behind them when Meyer asked, “What is it?”

  She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “Ashby’s alive!”

  She wasn’t prepared for Meyer’s knees to go. Daglish grabbed him before he could hit the floor and eased him onto the bed, where he sat staring at her as if he was about to weep, but grinning, too. Daglish looked at the neatly printed list she held and said, puzzled, “Is that my sister’s handwriting?”

  Explanations took rather longer than she had expected. Unlike her, the two officers easily accepted that Ashby had been found by a French spy, and had seconded them to help destroy a German laboratory, while Ashby and the French were to destroy another. Until she’d met the Zouave courier, who’d appeared in record time to carry her to Paris, she’d had her doubts; she’d believed Ashby was alive, she’d recognized his handwriting, but had thought the rest of it an elaborate joke.

  Meyer was confused as to how Lucilla Daglish had become involved, but her brother said that she knew a man with the French army. He left it unspoken exactly how she knew him, but his implication was clear. Hailey confirmed that he meant the mysterious Major Fournier, and stored this new information away.

  She produced the map drawn by Major Fournier and the list of supplies that she and Sister Daglish had arrived at together. The fabric and notions were for Bob to make camouflage clothing and masks like those used by snipers, to enable them to pass as closely as possible before beginning their bombardment, which would involve as many jam-tin grenades as the three of them could manufacture in the time available. Major Fournier had promised tobacco tins, guncotton and fuses for those, with apologies that he could offer nothing better; the French had no more proper grenades than the British.

  By this time, she was sitting on the floor, not wanting to dirty any of the furniture or, worse, get lice in the sheets; Meyer had the bed, and Daglish the chair. Daglish said, “I played cricket. I should be the one heaving the grenades.”

  “I’ll keep a pipe going for you and light the fuses,” Bob said. She still felt filthy, but at least she was pleasantly warm in the steam-heated room. The wine Meyer had poured for her didn’t hurt, either.

  Meyer said, “Perhaps you should stay behind, Hailey. We could get into serious trouble if we’re caught.”

  “No. Sir.”

  “We’re officers. We’d be much better off if captured. And—”

  “No. Sir.” She rose and shrugged out of her coat. She knew why Meyer was trying to keep her out of it. He didn’t want to risk a woman. But Lucilla Daglish was going to risk her life, and so was the Belgian woman spy. Hailey wasn’t about to be left out. “Is there a proper bath in this place?”

  “And a shower bath,” Daglish confirmed with a sly grin, acknowledging his own delight in this luxury. “Want my soap? I’ve got some cresol soap, too, if you want it.”

  “Do I!” she said, grateful to her toes. Cresol soap killed lice.

  Meyer started to speak, then stopped. Daglish glanced at him. “Something wrong?”

  She stared him down.

  “No,” Meyer said. “Nothing. Take my towel, Hailey.”

  The bath was heaven. She locked the door and showered first, three times, before having a lovely soak in the tub. Then she changed into her clean uniform, shoved the other into a laundry bag and hurried downstairs to see about getting a room for herself. Sleeping in privacy was the greatest luxury she could think of at the moment, and that way, Meyer and Daglish would have one final night of privacy, as well. They might never have another chance, poor buggers.

  She wasn’t sure what to do about Daglish. His sister knew her secret, as did Ashby and Meyer. And she knew that Daglish was a sodomite. He wouldn’t be likely to tell, for fear she would expose his secret. They neither of them could throw stones. But she’d grown used to keeping her mouth shut tight about herself, and it wasn’t as if there was a real need for him to know. If he knew, he might start to treat her differently, as Meyer had just tried to do. It didn’t matter if he did it out of kindness, it was still hard to take when she’d been in battle just as much as they had. Maybe more, because usually she was running through fire without any protection.

  Maybe it was Meyer with whom she needed to have a talk. She remembered him once admitting that his inevitable fate at cricket was to be chosen last, so it wasn’t as if he could take her place in grenade throwing. Aside from that, it didn’t look like this war was going to end anytime soon, and if that was true, she would be working with him for a long time to come. She wouldn’t be able to stand it if he treated her like a china plate.

  She bolted her door securely before daring to crawl naked between the clean bed linens. The well-worn cotton caressed her scrubbed skin with heavenly softness. She lay in luxurious abandon for a long time, listening to the occasional traffic on the street below, and thought on the future. Sister Daglish had a lover, or at least a potential lover, as well as her work. Sister Daglish was not as self-sufficient as Bob had thought. Or, rather, she was, but she also had a man. Could Bob manage the same, while still keeping her independence and her career?

  There was always leave. Daglish and Meyer had managed quite nicely. Only time would tell if they could maintain the necessary separation between duty and sex. She’d never had an inkling, until he’d told her, that Meyer and Ashby had been lovers, so perhaps Meyer would be good at that. Daglish, she wasn’t sure. It had been clear to her that he pined for Meyer at all sorts of inopportune moments. Maybe it would be easier for him, now that he’d gotten what he desired. She’d fucked Meyer, and enjoyed it quite a lot, but she hadn’t felt the urge to shag him silly every time she saw him. Perhaps that sort of thing could work out.

  Except she had the added problem of not being what she seemed. It was bad enough to be thought a sodomite. If she were discovered to be a woman, she would be out of the army in a heartbeat, with no pension and probably criminal charges levied. For all she knew, it might be treason to offer your weak womanly body to protect the shores of Britain, or some such rot. Compared to that, sneaking off on one’s leave to help destroy an enemy laboratory was small potatoes.

  The following morning, she did her necessary shopping, then took the train with her two officers out to the countryside. She rode in a carriage full of enlisted men, of course, and won a couple of guineas and a packet of cigarettes at cards before Daglish poked his head in the door to fetch her for their stop.

  As promised, a lorry awaited them, driven by a French nun, small and round and wrinkled like a dried apple, who waited patiently beside the cab with her hands steadily counting off a rosary.

  Bob remembered the rosary she’d found in Ashby’s things, adorned with an enameled circular seal of a wolf lying down with a lamb. So far as she knew, he’d never taken it out of its velvet pouch. She was suddenly glad she hadn’t yet had time to send it to his mother. He was still officially listed as missing, not killed, and for once it was the truth. When they saw him again, she would give him the rosary.

  She wished Ashby were here now, to tell her what to do. He’d always had a dab hand with advice; not as comforting as Meyer usually was, but getting right to the point and reminding her that things weren’t as bad as they looked. He’d probably tell her to forget about what she’d done with Meyer, and he’d be right. So when the nun dropped them off at a spacious billet in a little hamlet half-destroyed by shelling, she immediately took her sewing supplies and carried them into the dining room.

  Daglish went to check on the grenade supplies that were supposed to be in the gardening shed. Meyer hurried after her, his arms loaded with yards of fabric wrapped in brown paper. “Where would you like me to put this?” he asked.

  “Table.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  She unrolled her housewife and plucked out a pencil and a tailor’s crayon. “You can’t draw patterns.”

  “Well, no.” She could still hear him breathing, and finally he said, “You’re angry wit
h me.”

  She shrugged.

  “Because of Crispin?”

  She shook her head. Men could be so slow. Anger bubbled through her veins.

  “I won’t say I’m sorry for trying to keep you out of this.”

  “Why not?” She turned to face him. Her anger boiled over and she said, “Bloody hell, I even got shot in the line of duty.”

  He paused, looked away, then looked back at her. “And if you were…Pittfield, say…yes. You’re right. I am sorry.”

  As usual, he was genuine, but she was still a bit angry. “Get me some newspapers, will you? Or butcher paper.”

  “I really am sorry.”

  “Go on, now. Sir. We’ll talk about it later.”

  22

  TANNEKEN INSISTED ON TRAVELING TO KAUZ’S laboratory as a wolf. She wanted to have every sense available to her at its utmost capacity. If she needed to communicate with the humans, Ashby would be able to interpret her body language well enough. He intended to stay in his human form so he might use a pistol and be able to manipulate small objects. Tanneken felt Mademoiselle Daglish ought to be able to fill this role, except that Ashby was undoubtedly more skilled in the use of guns. Monsieur Fournier would be too busy attempting to extract Kauz’s foul scientific records before they destroyed the buildings.

  She rode in the back of the open motorcar with Ashby and an Enfield rifle reeking of oil and metal beneath its wrappings; Mademoiselle Daglish drove, and Fournier spoke to her in low tones, oddly enough about mathematics, and occasionally passed around a flask of hot coffee. All of them were well wrapped against the bitter wind, which, Tanneken thought smugly, was nothing to her fine pelage.

  After a few miles, Ashby took his glove off, rested his hand atop Tanneken’s skull, and scratched with his nails. Of course, he knew the places most rewarded by scratching, and also knew when to shift his attentions to her jawline, and then her chin. Tanneken allowed the familiarity. She had agreed to marry him, after all, and it felt astonishingly pleasant. She remembered with a pang that the last—and only—person to caress her in wolf form had been her mother. Her mother’s touch had not, however, been the same. Not at all. She shifted in the small space available to her and let her chin fall heavily on Ashby’s thigh. She knew he had not worn underthings, to enable him to quickly shed his clothing should he need to change. Quirking her brows, she licked him between his legs, laughing to herself when he jolted in his seat and then laughed, himself.

  “What’s so funny?” Mademoiselle Daglish called over her shoulder.

  “Just blowing off steam,” Ashby replied, fondling Tanneken’s ears. She huffed out a breath and had the pleasure of feeling him shift in his seat.

  Mademoiselle Daglish drove to a railway siding and braked in the shadow of a bullet-riddled freight car. “We walk from here,” Fournier said, rewrapping his scarf and carefully buttoning his dark overcoat over his lighter-colored uniform. He’d earlier exchanged his kepi for a knit wool seaman’s cap. One like it covered Ashby’s bright hair, and another confined Mademoiselle Daglish’s longer locks. The humans quickly shouldered rucksacks, the two men carrying weapons, as well.

  A few hundred feet away, it was easy to see why walking was required; the rails had been wrenched from the ground, some twisted from the force of explosions. Great ruts from lorries scarred the earth. Feeling as if she hadn’t been free for months, Tanneken ranged freely through the dead grass, sniffing out rodents and listening to their tiny rustles as her three companions hiked along the remnants of the railway. She could see why Kauz would have chosen his location now. He would have wanted to take advantage of the railway, for delivering such items as heavy fencing and wire cages.

  She took a moment to roll in the crackling grass, scrubbing the remembered scent of confinement from her nose. When she arose, she felt cleaner, and when the others caught up with her, she trotted next to Ashby for a time. She found his scent comforting, a reminder of sex and, even more, a clear sign that she was not alone. She would not be alone when she approached the laboratory buildings that masked the entrance to Kauz’s underground corridors, for the first time seeing them from the outside, while conscious. She would not be alone when she entered the rooms that stank of chemicals and pain and fear.

  She lifted her head and deeply tasted the chill wind, concentrating on the tangled ropes of scent it brought her. It was easier to submerge beneath the wolf as she did that, and the rest of the night passed in a succession of moments, each filled with dead grass and live earth flashing beneath her paws. When she suddenly smelled danger, she nearly spun on her haunches and fled. She’d almost forgotten her purpose.

  Ashby’s gloved hand burrowed into her ruff and stayed there as he crouched beside her. “Tanneken,” he said softly.

  It was enough. She swished her tail once and lifted her brows, knowing he would be able to make out her expression in the nimbus of light thrown by the laboratory’s electric flood lamps. She could not, however, disguise the faint trembling in her muscles. She was unsure if it sprang from anger or fear. She decided it was a combination of both.

  Ashby rubbed his face against hers. She huffed out a surprised breath and licked his nose.

  Mademoiselle Daglish turned her back on the fenced buildings and set down her rucksack. “The entrance is on the other side,” she remarked. “The shed I burned, when I brought out Ashby, is to this side.”

  Tanneken lifted her head. Yes, she could still smell the taint of petrol and ash, and even the scent of wolf, oddly fresh to have been a reminder of Ashby’s presence. The other wolves, she realized. They were here.

  Bob didn’t smell any dangerous chemicals outside the laboratory, but perhaps they didn’t have any smell. She crawled back across the stretch of bare ground and squirmed down into the scratch trench Daglish had dug for cover, between the two men. Daglish lay on his belly, his head turned toward Meyer, though she couldn’t see the direction of his gaze through the camouf laged sniper’s hood he wore. Meyer had the deeper side of the shallow trench; he crouched over their grenades, inspecting the tobacco tins for leaks or damage from the trip here.

  They’d had a ride first with a slender, pretty Belgian woman named Miss Wuytack, who was one of Monsieur Fournier’s spies. She’d been a little taken aback that neither Daglish nor Bob had spared her a second glance. She’d made a valiant attempt to flirt with Meyer, until he skillfully let slip that he was a Jew, and then he spent the rest of the ride staring out at the countryside while the spy drove on in resolute silence.

  After Miss Wuytack let them out, they’d loaded their grenades onto a hand-operated railway cart, which took them as far as a deserted hamlet, recently abandoned by the troops of both sides. Past that hamlet was enemy territory, though it didn’t look any different to Bob than what had gone before, until they began to spot small groups of patrolling soldiers. So far, they’d successfully avoided contact with the enemy, but that wouldn’t last long, now that they were dug in near a semiofficial government-funded German laboratory.

  It was time for action. “Half a dozen guards,” she reported, her breath fogging in the cold air. “Couple smoking, out by the latrines.” She stopped and wiggled a hand beneath her camouflage overshirt to extract a rock that was poking into her belly.

  “Fancy uniforms. Every one with a shiny prick on his hat.”

  Daglish choked on a laugh. Meyer cast her a look she couldn’t decipher through the sniper’s hood he wore, but she could tell it wasn’t appreciative of her humor. She added, “No machine gun.”

  Meyer carefully laid out rows of jam-tin grenades. They had twenty-one. “Seven each,” he said.

  “Ten for me and eleven for Daglish,” Bob corrected.

  “I thought you were holding the pipe.”

  Daglish said, “I can’t carry them all. Hailey will hand them over as they’re needed. What we’ve got should be plenty.”

  Meyer said, “I seem to recall that I should be in command.”

  “We’re on leave
,” Bob said. She rolled onto her back, tugged off one glove with her teeth and began checking through her webbing equipment, making sure she had multiple tins of safety matches. She dug out the cheap pipe and pouch of tobacco she’d bought in Paris and set about the delicate process of getting it lit. Hopefully, the smell wouldn’t be strong enough to carry all the way to the Germans standing guard.

  “I’d still like it if you would be careful,” he said.

  “Us, too,” Daglish said. “Try not to shoot us, will you?” He patted the butt of the rifle they’d brought.

  Meyer snorted. “I think the camouflage will help me identify you, even from back here.” He fidgeted with the grenades again, but plainly it was just from nervousness, not anything that needed doing, so Bob laid her gloved hand atop his.

  She said, “Ashby’ll be terribly disappointed if he doesn’t get to see you, after all this.”

  “I don’t think he’d be all that happy if one of you was killed, either.” Meyer pulled away and ran his hand over the rifle barrel. “Cold as ice,” he remarked. “I wonder if it shoots frozen bullets?”

  It would have been better to have grenades thrown from all directions, but it hadn’t been practical with only the three of them. Meyer had insisted that one of them be armed with a more accurate and long-range weapon, much as the infantry were protected by artillery. Of them all, he was the best shot with a rifle, though he wasn’t as good as Southey or anywhere near as good as Mason, back at the regiment. Hailey reminded herself that accuracy like Mason’s or even Southey’s wasn’t required here. All Meyer had to do was plug someone until he couldn’t attack anymore. Even the worst shot in the regiment could usually manage that.