Enticing the Spymaster (War Girls)

by Julie Rowe

  That she could not accept.

  “I’m going to remove the bullet. Then I’ll check for further damage and sew up whatever I find. If we move fast, it’ll work.”

  “How will you find any other damage?”

  How indeed. “I need a couple of retractors.”

  “What are those?” the young man asked.

  “Tools to hold the ribs apart so I can get in and sew up the damage.”

  “Like two forks?”

  “Yes, but they shouldn’t be sharp. We don’t want to puncture something else while we’re in there.”

  “If we bend a couple of spoons?”

  “Yes, that would work.”

  Roeland disappeared, but came back only a half minute later with two bent spoons.

  Jude took them and dropped them into the bowl of alcohol. She waited several seconds then took out the tweezers. “Be ready with fresh bandages.”

  The young man nodded.

  To delay would only mean further blood loss. She sucked in a deep breath and, with trembling hands, plucked the bullet out.

  Blood welled up, faster than before, but not the geyser she feared. She dropped the bullet and tweezers into the alcohol and grabbed the spoons, using them to pull the ribs apart ever so slightly. The muscle was torn where the bullet lodged, but the artery underneath wasn’t punctured. At least not badly.

  “Roeland, can you hold the ribs apart while I sew?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He took over while she picked up the threaded needle and began to close the small tear with tiny stitches. The flow of blood slowed and after the third stitch, reduced significantly. She sewed up the hole in the muscle where the bullet penetrated then stitched the skin closed.

  “Another bandage, please.”

  The woman handed her one and she placed it over the wound. “Hold this here,” she instructed Roeland. While he pressed the cloth to the wound, Jude took a second bandage, dipped it into the alcohol.

  “I’ll need another like this, then a long one.” She wrung out the wet bandage, removing as much of the alcohol as possible. She wanted the alcohol to slowly seep to the skin and act as a barrier against infection, not bathe it. That would cause the wound to bleed too much.

  She stacked the bandages so the one in saturated in alcohol was sandwiched between two dry ones. Then she took the long bandage and wrapped it around Michael’s torso to hold everything in place.

  “Are you done?” Roeland asked.

  “The surgery is done.” She took a deep breath. “But we can’t stay here. More Germans are sure to come. Do you have any clothing we could put him in?”

  The woman disappeared and returned with a shirt and a worn coat. Roeland helped her dress Michael.

  Bert walked in but came to an abrupt stop. “What happened?”

  “He was shot,” Jude answered. “Where have you been?”

  “Finding a bolt-hole to stash two German soldiers in. How is he?”

  “Alive.” She didn’t have a better answer than that. She turned to Roeland.

  “Can we all fit on the boat? There’s no other way I’m going to get both these men away from here.”

  He sighed and she thought he would refuse. “Yes.”

  A few minutes later, they were in the boat and headed for the Netherlands. Again.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I will return,” she promised Roeland. “I’ll try to bring some supplies with me. Thank you, my friend, for all you’ve done for us.”

  “Please don’t put yourself in danger, ma’am.”

  Danger was all around her and that wasn’t going to change. “You are all in my prayers,” she said instead of mouthing some empty platitude.

  She nodded at the old man manning the wheel and they moved away from the dock, down the river.

  It was late afternoon, but the air felt thick and heavy, as if someone had thrown a wool blanket over them.

  Michael lay on the longest plank bench, while she and Bert sat on the floor of the boat.

  Hours passed. Michael hadn’t regained full consciousness, though he’d groaned off and on since they’d left.

  “How long it will take to get there?” Bert asked her.

  “I don’t know.”

  Silence for a moment. “Will we have trouble crossing?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  They both looked at the old man and Jude asked him their questions in French. He shrugged.

  “Do you only speak French?” Bert asked.

  “Oui,” the old man said.

  Bert nodded, looked at Michael and switched to English. “Is he going to make it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t, but I have faith in him. He’s the most stubborn, headstrong, amazing man I’ve ever met. When he sets out to do something, he does it.”

  “What’s his real rank?”

  She allowed one side of her mouth to rise. “You don’t need to know that.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Bert, this is not the time to discuss it. I won’t tell you anything he wouldn’t. If he thinks you need to know, he’ll tell you.”

  “He’s unconscious now.”

  “Yes, and unfortunately, that won’t last.”

  “Unfortunately?”

  “He’ll be in a great deal of pain when he wakes up.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re dealing with your own discomfort. How do your ribs feel?”

  “Same as before.”

  “If your breathing becomes difficult or your pain gets worse, do let me know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Bert was silent for a while, then said, “You’re no ordinary nurse. You speak at least three languages and you’re used to giving orders. Who are you?”

  “My name isn’t important.” She smiled. “My parents raised me with a strong sense of duty.”

  “Perhaps too strong.”

  “Michael?” She turned. His eyes were open, his mouth twisted into a grimace.

  “What happened?” He tried to sit up, but fell back onto the bench. “Where are we?”

  “You were shot in the chest. Luckily the bullet lodged itself in one of your ribs. I removed it and sewed up the wound. We left the dock in Liege some hours ago.”

  “You were supposed to be across the border by now.”

  “If I hadn’t come back you would be dead by now.”

  “I don’t matter,” he growled. “You do.”

  “What? You—I...” Anger rose like a fast tide inside her, making her hands shake. “That is absolute rubbish. We are all going to get out of this insanity together. I will accept nothing less.”

  “The Allied Armies need to be warned.”

  “They will be, by someone who knows something about military strategy and tactics. That’s certainly not me.”

  “Jude, I’m not going to argue with you. I’m telling you. If we get stopped, leave Bert and me behind. Get out and go.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, I won’t trade your life or Bert’s for mine, and you’re in no position to force the issue.”

  “Enough. You’ve done your part. I need you to trust me and do as you’re told.”

  “I do trust you. It’s you who doesn’t trust me.”

  “I have the deepest respect for you.” He was angry now, she could hear it in the growl his voice had become.

  “How can you respect me when you don’t trust me to do the right thing, make the right decisions or take care of myself?”

  “Because you keep putting yourself in harm’s way.”

  “Coming from a man who spent days in an enemy trench, in an enemy uniform, suffered a wound and now a second one, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “How’s this for ridiculous? When we get home, I’ll ensure that you’re never allowed to leave your home again.”

  She snorted. “How are you going to d
o that? You’re not my husband.”

  The silence following that statement was deep and dark.

  Bert’s voice sounded high in contrast. “You’re not?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Anger flowed through Michael’s blood, setting every nerve ending on fire. “An easily rectified problem.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down her nose at him. “I’m not marrying you. Duty might be enough for you to marry someone, perhaps. Not for me.”

  “What would be enough?”

  “You don’t meet my list of qualifications.” She turned her back on both men.

  “She’s got a list?” Bert asked.

  “I’m not surprised.” Michael sighed. The woman was going to drive him mad. “She’s remarkably organised.”

  “Do all women have a list?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Yes.” Jude said without turning around. “We do.”

  “That’s frightening.”

  “I’m beginning to realise how dangerous an angry woman really is,” Michael said.

  “Keep talking as though I’m not here and you can both get out and walk.”

  “I think she means it.”

  “I know she does.” Michael couldn’t keep pride from colouring his voice. “She has a will of iron, the intelligence of Aristotle and the compassion of Hippocrates.”

  “Do you think a little flattery will change my mind?”

  “I know it won’t.” He contemplated her rigid posture and knew that to convince her, he’d have to tell her things that might make her hate him. If that knowledge saved her life, so be it.

  “I asked your father’s permission to marry you two years ago. He refused and ordered me to lie about my feelings for you.”

  “So you said.”

  “I should have ignored his order, but he was my commanding officer, my mentor, and I am too well trained an officer to ignore an order of that...importance. I thought, at the time, that he was correct. I would not have made a good husband for you.”

  “If I were a typical woman, perhaps you and he would have been right. But I’m not. You were both wrong.”

  “Yes. I made a mistake. I realised what I’d done and confronted your father. We argued. He forbade me from contacting you and begging your forgiveness.” He swallowed hard. “My relationship with you wasn’t the only one I walked away from.” Physical pain was easy, this confession was...so much worse.

  “What do you mean?”

  He ignored the question. “I hadn’t communicated with your father for months until he sent me the message that you were in trouble. I could hardly believe it. The danger you were in...it staggered me. I told him I would get you out of Belgium and home to England—for a price.”

  “What?” The question was spoken so softly some might mistake it for an innocent inquiry, but he heard the underlying steel in her voice and knew he was being judged. “What price?”

  “To let me tell you the truth and not to interfere.” She turned to look at him and he nearly smiled at the incandescent rage on her face. “You look mad enough to kill. I have no idea if he agreed or not. I haven’t heard from him since I sent back his messenger dog. I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. You deserve the truth.”

  “You’re fortunate I don’t have a rifle, because I’d probably shoot you,” she said with great dignity.

  “We were...wrong.”

  “And stupid.”

  “Yes. I should have trusted you to make the right decision for yourself and your father should’ve known you’d never meekly allow him to plan your future.”

  “So what is it you want from me? What price will you demand from me for taking me home?”

  The pain in his chest became a vice, squeezing all the air out. He forced his muscles to work, to breathe through it. “Be happy.”

  “And if continuing my work as a nurse Belgium makes me happy?”

  “Whatever it takes.” He smiled even as shadows encroached on his vision from all sides. Not phantoms of the night, but those of the mind. He didn’t want to leave her alone to contend with whatever crossed their path, but his body wasn’t listening to his brain. “Follow her orders,” he whispered to Bert as the darkness took him. He couldn’t even see now, just hear the chugging of the boat’s engine and the response of a man who was as wounded as he.

  “I will.”

  * * *

  Jude rushed to his side. “Is he breathing?”

  “Yes, just unconscious,” Bert said

  “I’m going check his bandage, see if it has bled through.” She peeled it carefully away at one edge.

  “How does it look?”

  “Good.” She expelled a relieved breath. “Good.”

  “How far to the border?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

  The river was obviously used as a way to transport everything from people to pork. Hopefully, they would come upon Belgians and not any more German soldiers.

  “Are you going to forgive him?”

  Jude stared at Bert then at Michael. “I’m so angry and disappointed and sad, I don’t know what to think.”

  “I haven’t known either of you very long, but I know not just anyone would have done what you two have done to help me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you you’re both a couple of bloody heroes.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “What would you have done if you had been him two years ago?” Bert saluted her, then closed his eyes and leaned his head against the side of the boat.

  She did the same.

  What would she have done in Michael’s place? Her father was a persuasive man, logical, rational and more solidly loyal to his family and country than anyone she’d ever met. Would she have disobeyed him?

  She rubbed her temples. The situation wasn’t as black and white as she’d thought.

  She allowed herself to rest until Bert called out to her. “Ma’am, I think you need to check him. He’s sweating and feels hot to me.”

  Jude rose and put her hand on Michael’s forehead. “You’re right, he’s got a fever.”

  “Infection?”

  “Possibly. There are a fair number of other diseases that cause a fever. Diphtheria, influenza and others.”

  “Some of my mates got sick from all the rats and ticks.”

  “Yes, the trenches are horrible breeding grounds for disease.” Bert didn’t look healthy either, pale with pain-pinched lips. “Try to get some sleep.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Day fell into night and they still putted along. She went to sleep with the vibration of the motor settling into her bones.

  Some hours later, the sun rose and woke her. She saw a party of men in the distance. As they got closer, she realised there was barbed wire strewn across the land along the river as far as the eye could see.

  The border. Guarded by German soldiers.

  But soldiers weren’t the only people at the border. A line of people in civilian clothes, mostly families with women, old men and small children, stood on the bank waiting to cross into the Netherlands. The soldiers spoke with them, looked them over and checked their belongings before allowing them to pass or turning them away.

  Jude and the old man quietly waited for their turn. Please, God, let my two men stay unconscious.

  “Why have they put wire across the river?” she asked in French.

  “It’s electric, enough to kill a man,” the old man replied. “They say they’re going to string it all down the border to the ocean.”

  A soldier threw the old man a rope and they were pulled to the shore. A plank was set down so the Germans could board the boat.

  The first one looked around at the rotting wood and rust on all the metal. “Old,” he reported to another.

  That soldier looked over Jude at the two men sleeping.

  “What’s all this?”

  “My husband and brother,” Ju
de answered. “My husband has a fever and my brother fell off a ladder and broke his arm. There’s no doctor, but my husband’s family is in the Netherlands. There might be a doctor there.”

  “What kind of fever?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem. It came on so quickly.”

  “Do you have papers?”

  “No. I’m just a farmwife. My husband usually takes care of those things.”

  The soldier stared at the two men for a moment, then leaned over and put his hand on Michael’s forehead. He jerked it away and took a step back. “He’s hot. Is he contagious?”

  “I don’t know. That’s another reason why I’m trying to take them across the border. The neighbours made us leave. They don’t want to get sick too.”

  The first soldier waved the second soldier over. “These men are sick. Send them across the border.”

  He considered this then said to Jude, “If you cross the border, you won’t be able to come back unless you’re all healthy and you have the correct papers. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand. If things go the way I think they might, I won’t have anyone to bring back.”

  This seemed to make both soldiers nervous, because they left the boat and called for the gate to open. A portion of the barbed wire covering the river was pulled away. The last thing she heard behind her was both soldiers calling for water and soap.

  She waited until they were some distance from the border before addressing Bert. “Are you alive?”

  “Yes, though I wonder how much longer I have.”

  “I think your life expectancy just went up.”

  Bert put the back of his hand on Michael’s face. “Ma’am, he’s feels hotter to me than before.”

  “Maastricht isn’t far away. Let’s hope we can find some help there and directions.”

  “Directions to what?”

  “A safe place.”

  “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

  She turned to glance at him. “You still haven’t shared your real name.”

  A slow, open smile transformed his face into one that seemed, if not friendly, at least relaxed. “Bert is my name. My second name, actually. Bertrand. It’s what everyone calls me at home. My father is William Bertrand Hervey the second. I’m the third.”