Читать книгу The Stolen Years - Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 14

The Black Forest, Germany, 1917

Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, Gavin heard a voice speaking German, then shivering and pain took hold as he was slowly moved. He heard a woman’s voice whispering to him. “Not a word. Pretend you’re out still.”

Gavin closed his eyes once more and fell back into a semi-comatose sleep, too weak to think, haunted by Angus’s indifference, Flora’s smile and Annelise’s fear-filled eyes. Frustrated, angry dreams, where his twin became a different being to the brother he knew, were followed by soothing images of Strathaird, standing high above the cliff with the sea churning below.

The next time he woke, Gavin knew at once something had changed. He sniffed, eyes closed, recognizing the subtle scent of crisp, fresh linen and lavender. When he opened his eyes, sunlight poured through a window onto a bright patchwork quilt. Taking stock of his surroundings, he wondered how he got here. The room was low-beamed and filled with heavy, rich furnishings, relics of a past era. He felt weak, but the excruciating pain in his hip and thigh had subsided somewhat. He tried to sit up and winced. For some reason, his arm lay across his chest, bandaged and wrapped in a neat sling. This must be the hunting lodge, he decided. Franz and Miles must have brought him here.

After a while he heard footsteps approaching and warily closed his eyes, unsure of what to expect. It might be someone other than his friends, someone who believed him to be a wounded German officer. The door opened, followed by a whiff of delicate perfume. A soft, cool hand stroked his forehead, lifted a strand of hair, then touched his cheek. A woman’s voice whispered something soothing in English before straightening the sheet and placing two fingers on the inside of his wrist. Finally, curiosity won and Gavin squinted warily. He stared in surprise at a pair of bright green eyes and high cheekbones that reminded him immediately of Franz.

“Shh. Stay quiet.” The girl stood, looking sad and serious as she measured the beat of his pulse. Gavin watched, fascinated, as the sunlight brushed the golden strands of hair that cascaded over her shoulders down to her waist, glinting like a burnished mane. Her face was youthful, and he guessed that she was no older than sixteen. He swallowed, taken aback by her beauty.

“Your pulse is regular now,” she said in perfect English, laying his arm back on the quilt. “Don’t worry. You are quite safe here.”

“Who are you?” he asked, trying to sit again.

“Don’t. You’re still weak. I am Franz von Ritter’s younger sister,” she said. Leaning forward to assist him, she plumped the fat goose-down pillows before retreating a step from the bed. He noticed how slim she was, her gray skirt too big and the woolen sweater too loose.

“Is this the hunting lodge?” he asked, looking at her curiously.

“Yes. You’ve been here for almost a week.”

“Where are Franz and Miles?”

She hesitated, then gave a sigh. “Franz is dead, and Miles has been taken prisoner.”

“Dead?” Gavin sat up, shocked, then fell back in pain. “But how? When? It can’t be!”

She seemed suddenly frail and he leaned forward as best he could.

“Sit down. I don’t even know your name. But please, you must tell me.”

The girl reluctantly perched on the edge of the bed, twisting a handkerchief and speaking in a controlled voice, as if trying to suppress all emotion. “The car broke down, they went to get help.”

“I know that,” Gavin interrupted. “I hid in the woods.”

She paused, swallowed, then continued in a trembling voice. “As Franz was about to go and fetch you, he and Miles were intercepted by three army officials called in by one of the locals. I believe someone must have overheard Franz and Miles speaking to one another in English, otherwise it is incomprehensible that anyone would have suspected. But they did. It was impossible for Franz and Miles to keep up their disguise for long. They brought my brother before a military tribunal.” Her voice went hoarse and her hands trembled. “He was sentenced to death by firing squad.” She swallowed again, tears pouring down her cheeks, while Gavin remained in shocked silence.

“Out of deference to my father,” she continued shakily, “the Haupt Kommandant allowed Franz to see me and my parents before his execution. They brought him to Hanover before they killed him. It was in those last moments that he told me where you were. He said you had Mama’s hankie and told me where they had left you. He begged me to save you,” she whispered, choking on the words. Gavin’s hand covered hers, horrified. “He…he thought of you till the end. He said you were his responsibility.”

“My God. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” She turned on him angrily. “Sorry? Do you think that will bring back my brother? Or my father, who died of a heart attack shortly after? And my mother, who put a pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger? You say you are sorry? Perhaps if it wasn’t for you they could have got away. But no. He waited, did everything he could to save you, and now he is dead.” She broke down, buried her face in her hands and sobbed, as Gavin sat in helpless shock. He reached out a hand tentatively but, realizing he was doing more harm than good, he leaned back, eyes closed, incapable of assimilating the spectacle of Franz’s death that played out in his imagination.

Slowly the girl’s tears subsided and she wiped her face with the hankie. “I’m sorry,” she gulped. “I know it isn’t your fault. But I can’t believe they’re gone. All of them. Just like that. I can’t believe it. And he was so brave, so heroic. He kissed my mother, he…he was the brave one, not me. He went to his death a hero, while we were all destroyed.”

“I’m privileged to have known him and called him my friend,” Gavin said, throat tight, watching her tear-blotched face. “What’s your name?” he asked, gently touching her hand once more.

“Greta.”

“I’m Gavin MacLeod.”

“I know. He told me in a whisper as we were kissing goodbye. He said, ‘Take care of Gavin, little one. I know I can count on you.”’ Her voice broke again and she twisted the damp handkerchief into a knot. “It was so terrible, but I knew I had to find you. I had made that final promise to Franz. I left by car the same day. They don’t know that I can drive, but Hans, our chauffeur, taught me. I drove to where Franz told me. I made sure no one was there. Sure enough, you were in the exact spot.”

“But how did you manage?” Gavin asked, amazed at her courage.

“I dragged you and heaved you into the car. You are quite heavy,” she said with the first trace of a smile.

He squeezed her hand. “How can I ever thank you, Greta? You and Franz saved my life. What a brave woman you are.”

“No, I’m not. It was not bravery. I was merely fulfilling a last promise to the person I loved most. He told me he will come back.” She shifted and sighed. “We used to talk a lot about metaphysics, about spirits and whether, if he died in the war, he could return to visit me as a soul. Do you believe that can happen?” Her face was childlike in its hope.

“I don’t know.” Gavin hesitated. “I have a cousin whom I love very much. She believes that people come back. She is convinced of it. Personally, I’ve never experienced it, though many of the soldiers in the unit said they were certain they’d seen men that they themselves had buried later rallying in battle. Whether it is the truth or just wishful thinking, I can’t tell you.”

She nodded, rose and sniffed. “You must be hungry. I will get you some soup.”

“Uh, I need to use the washroom,” he murmured, “but I don’t know if I can stand.”

Greta blushed. “Of course. Allow me.” She came close to the bed. Gavin heaved his legs over the side and tried to stand, but everything went black and he had to sit once more. The second time was better. “Thanks. I can probably manage if you tell me where it is.”

“I had better help you.”

“All right,” he conceded, as embarrassed as she was.

Slowly they made their way across the wooden floorboards, then painfully negotiated the corridor, Gavin leaning heavily on Greta’s slim shoulder. As they passed through arched doors, Gavin observed iron braziers and coats of arms, interspersed with boar and deer heads on the walls.

“This is the water closet,” she said, blushing more deeply.

“Thanks,” he replied, making a superhuman effort to stand straight and sound casual.

“I’ll wait for you here.”

“I’ll be fine,” he answered, sounding more confident than he felt. What if he couldn’t manage on his own? He entered the bathroom, sank down on the edge of the tub and tried to regain some strength. It took him nearly ten minutes, but he was finally able to open the door with a semblance of dignity. Greta stood by the window, arms crossed protectively over her chest, pretending not to notice. He felt a rush of pity. She had been through so much, and now she had him to contend with.

He felt stronger as they walked back to the room, and better able to observe his surroundings. The ancient suits of armor standing like sentries along the wide corridor reminded him of Strathaird.

“Is this place very old?”

“Only about eighty years old, though it appears older. My grandfather built it for a visit from the kaiser, who wanted to go hunting. Wild boar, I believe. But my father didn’t hunt. He lived most of his life in England—we all did—so it has been closed for many years.”

“Where are we exactly?”

“Well hidden in the heart of the Black Forest. The nearest village must be at least twelve kilometers away. Nobody ever comes here, except the odd hunter during the hunting season. Anyway, the men are all at the front, so we’re safe.”

“Won’t anyone look for you?” he asked curiously, relieved they had reached the bed.

“What? Look for the Englishwoman’s daughter, and the traitor’s sister? No. They are glad to be rid of me.” She gave a bitter little laugh that belied her young face.

“You can’t assume that. There must be someone who cares.”

“Only my aunt Louisa, but she lives in Switzerland. Lie down now. We’ll talk later, after I get your food.”

He lay back thankfully against the pillows, hating that he felt so damn weak, but relieved that Greta appeared calmer. The sun had gone, replaced by dark shadows that filtered through the diamond-shaped panes. The mention of food made him realize just how hungry he was and helped explain his weakness. He hadn’t eaten for days.

Sitting up despite the pain, he looked out through the window at a sea of leaves that stretched for miles, like a heavy green carpet dotted with golden spots. All at once the war and the recent tragedies seemed like a dream. Even Franz’s death seemed remote. He thought of Flora, tending the wounded, and wished he were with her and his parents, who perhaps believed him dead. He fiddled fretfully with the sheet, wishing he could turn back time, wishing he hadn’t left Annelise alone with Miles, wondering how long it would take him to get back to his platoon, where he could let them all know he was alive and well.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Greta, carrying a large tray loaded with a bowl of steaming soup, crisp fresh bread hot from the oven and a bottle of Moselle wine. His mouth watered as she laid it carefully on his lap, then she perched at the end of the bed, watching him, as he forced himself to take his time and maintain a semblance of good manners. Perhaps it was sheer hunger, but he couldn’t remember anything ever tasting that appetizing before.

“It’s delicious,” he said, wishing he could scrape the bottom of the bowl.

“Would you like more?” She smiled tentatively, a sudden sweetness lighting her features.

“What about you?” he asked, afraid there might not be enough.

“I’ve eaten. Don’t worry, there’s plenty. Father made a vegetable plot, and I shot a rabbit this morning.” She stood up.

“You’re an enterprising young woman,” he said, handing her the tray, “and a very brave one.” Their eyes met and held for a moment, then she busied herself with the tray.

“This war has made us all into different people.” She looked down and sighed. “I’ll get you more soup.”

“Greta?”

“Yes?” She turned back.

“Just…thank you.” He smiled, embarrassed. Her mouth softened and her lovely green eyes shone with unshed tears.

Three days later, Gavin felt better. The rest, good food and companionship had strengthened him considerably, and he woke up feeling energetic and ready to rise. Swinging his legs carefully over the edge of the bed, he dressed in an old pair of gray trousers and a jersey that had once belonged to Franz and headed slowly down the large staircase toward the kitchen, filled with new exhilaration. The strain of the escape, followed by being bedridden and catered to hand and foot by Greta, had been getting on his nerves. At least now he could be of some use.

He reached the kitchen, guided by the smell of freshly baked bread that had become familiar over the past few days, and stood in the doorway. It was low-beamed and cozy. Sparkling copper pots and bunches of herbs and dried flowers hung from the ceiling. A pretty vase of wildflowers that sat on the large wooden table, which was covered in a bright checked cloth, gave the kitchen a homey feel. Greta stood over the immense stove, her back to him, stirring a pot. He watched her, aware all at once of her lithe, slim body, which even the faded blue cotton frock and woolen jacket couldn’t hide, and her hair. That amazing hair, like a princess’s in the fairy tales his mother used to read to them as children, fell smooth and golden down her back.

He thought sadly of Franz, a man he barely knew, who’d saved him, and realized he was partly responsible for her. Perhaps if he hadn’t planned the escape, Franz and her family would be alive. And Annelise. Surely that should have taught him what uncontrolled reactions could end up causing? He moved silently across the kitchen and came up behind her, peering over her shoulder to see what was in the pot.

“Mmm, that smells good.”

Greta squealed in surprise and upset the pan. It clattered to the ground, the contents oozing over the flagstone floor in a thick white puddle at her feet.

“How could you?” she cried angrily, fists balled, lips trembling.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Gavin apologized.

“I don’t care how sorry you are. Look at the mess you’ve made!” she exclaimed. “You’re as thoughtless as Franz—” The words died on her lips and she began to tremble. Without a second thought, Gavin stepped over the spilled porridge and put his arms around her, holding her close, soothing her until he felt the shaking stop. Then, gently, he stroked her hair and neck, easing her head against his shoulder and wishing he could give her back what she’d lost.

He gazed angrily over her head at the bright autumn morning through the open window, so serene and far removed from the horrors they were experiencing. He kissed the top of her head and whispered to her as he would a child, while birds twittered and a plump gray squirrel scuttled up a branch. It was impossible to believe that, not many miles away, war was causing such endless grief and destruction. He stroked her hair tenderly, feeling her body against him, trying to keep the inevitable reactions under control. She was so brave, yet so vulnerable, and he raged at her life being so bitterly devastated almost before it had begun.

He felt her stir and eased his arms. As he looked down into her face, he became aware that these were the true casualties of this absurd war. The women, the children, the too young and the too old. He was only seventeen himself, but he felt and looked so much older. The past eighteen months of trench warfare had marked him forever. The naive boy who left Scotland now possessed more experience than most men encountered in a lifetime.

But he pulled himself together and showed none of his thoughts. Negativity was a killer. The trenches had taught him that. “Come on, Greta. I’ll clean it up later. Would it be safe to go for a short walk? I would love to go outside. You could show me around.”

She stepped back, gulped, then nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

“Don’t be sorry. You had every reason to be upset, and I’m a damn fool for having surprised you in the first place.” He gave her a winning smile. “Let’s put it behind us and get outside. It’s a beautiful day, and I haven’t seen real fresh air for nearly two years.”

“All right.” She gave him a shy, tremulous smile, then slipped off her red-and-white flowered apron before heading through the kitchen door.

Gavin stood back and looked at the exterior of the hunting pavilion, a heavy structure built of stone and dark wood that was almost medieval in style, its gothic windows and thick walls reminiscent of a fortress. They walked through the overgrown gardens that stopped abruptly at the edge of the forest, trampling over weeds, daisies and grass that stood knee-high, and headed toward two stone benches shrouded by damp moss and clinging ivy. Beside them was a chipped Italian fountain with a dry spout that housed a family of toads.

“I’ve never seen toads in a forest before,” Gavin remarked, picking up a stone to throw at them.

“Don’t.” Greta stopped his hand. “That’s their home. They’re happy there. You have no right to hurt them.”

“That’s true,” he conceded, realizing how indifferent the war had made him. “Come on. Let’s run to the woods.”

“Run? You can’t run,” she exclaimed, her laugh girlish.

“Of course I can. It’s just a silly leg wound. I’m fine.”

“Really?” She arched an eyebrow. “Let’s see.”

With that, she set off, her long, full skirt billowing and hair flying like a young palomino’s as she set off toward the trees. Gavin followed her but knew he couldn’t make it. Damn. Would it never get better, he wondered, then laughed as Greta looked back triumphantly. He threw up his arms in a gesture of defeat and limped to where she’d stopped, flushed and breathless, conscious again of stirrings in his body that were becoming difficult to deny.

“There. You see? You’re not well yet. You have to take it easy, and I have to make sure that you do. Why, you shouldn’t even be walking around like this!”

“Right again,” he agreed, throwing himself down in the soft bed of grass and closing his eyes. “Ah, this is wonderful. Sun, blue sky and no guns, no rats, no damp, no death. Just the scent of life.” He inhaled deeply, aware of her next to him, her knees clasped up to her chin thoughtfully.

“It’s magical here, isn’t it? What happened to Franz, Mama and Papa seems unreal,” she whispered.

“Don’t.” He leaned on his elbow and took her hand. “I know this will sound cruel, Greta, but you have to stop thinking about it.”

“What a stupid thing to say,” she cried, snatching her hand away. “How can I think of anything else? I loved them. They’re my family.”

“I know. But you have to survive.”

“What for? There’s nothing left. They’re all gone. Dead. Murdered.” She pulled a wildflower raggedly from its roots. “What point is there to a life without those I loved?”

“Do you think that is what they would want?” Gavin retorted. “Is that what Franz died for? For you to sit here, blubbering and feeling sorry for yourself?”

“How dare you? What do you know about it? You haven’t lost your family. Perhaps, if it wasn’t for you, Franz might be alive.”

“Perhaps. But I did what I had to do. An officer’s first duty when taken prisoner is to try and escape from the enemy. Franz chose to join me. I never asked him to.” He rolled over again and watched her. He’d seen this state of mind. He knew how it could end up. “You can’t give up, Greta,” he said in a softer tone. “I won’t let you. I promise I’ll help you get through this, as best we can.”

“You?” She looked down at him disdainfully, pulling the petals from the wilted bud. “You’ll be off once you’re well. Don’t you want to go back to the war?” she challenged.

“Of course. At some point I’ll have to get back, but I can’t go like this.” He tapped his leg. “And I won’t leave you on your own. I owe that to Franz. We both do.” He reached up and took her fingers in his. She hesitated, then allowed him to turn her hand about.

“Do you play the piano?”

“Yes.” She sniffed. “How did you know?”

“Your hands remind me of someone I know who plays the piano, that’s all,” he said wistfully, remembering Flora playing at Strathaird, or on summer evenings in Limoges. It all seemed so long ago and so painfully nostalgic. “Will you play for me?”

She looked away. “Perhaps. Let’s go back. You must be tired and I need to milk the cow.” She pulled her hand away and got up, rubbing the grass from the back of her skirt.

“Cow?” Gavin exclaimed, following suit. “Where on earth did you find a cow?”

“It was standing in front of the house the morning after we arrived. I was frightened someone might reclaim it and find us, but they haven’t, so I’ve adopted her. I’ve called her Gretchen.”

“Then Gretchen it is. I’ll help you milk her. Maybe we can make butter.”

“Do you know how?” Greta looked at him doubtfully.

“Well, not exactly.” He grinned. “But I’ve seen Moira, our cook in Skye, do it dozens of times. Shouldn’t be too difficult,” he added nonchalantly, not about to be defeated. “Come on,” he stretched out his hand, determined to keep the smile on her face, “the only way we’ll know is if we try.”

“You’re being silly,” she demurred, then took his outstretched hand. Suddenly the destruction of the war seemed far away and the warm summer morning was well on its way as they walked slowly back toward the Schloss, both conscious of the new intimacy that reigned between them.

The days passed and they established a comfortable camaraderie. Summer ebbed gently into autumn and the leaves turned from green to red and gold, a beautiful mosaic among the dark pines. As Gavin’s leg improved, they took longer walks, although they never went too far, in case they should be seen by a chance wanderer.

After some unsuccessful experiments, they finally succeeded in making butter, and Gavin was amazed when Greta took him down into the huge, dark cellars of the pavilion, where Baron von Ritter had stocked enough food for an army. There were sausages and hams hanging on large iron hooks from the heavy oak beams; huge, airtight canisters filled with coarse brown flour, sugar, condiments and coffee; heavy stone jars of pickled gherkins and onions; and shelves filled with whole cheeses. But that was not all. Greta showed him a passage that she said went under the forest.

The wine cellar had also been magnificently stocked, probably before the kaiser’s visit, if the dates of the bottles were anything to judge by. Gavin, having spent part of every summer since early childhood at his uncle and aunt’s in Limoges, with occasional trips to nearby Bordeaux, knew good wine.

October came and the nights grew cold. The leaves turned from red and gold to bronze, and each evening they lit the huge fireplace in the study, the smallest room in the house and the easiest to heat. It was here and in the kitchen that Greta and he spent most of their time, talking about their lives, about Skye and Edinburgh, the MacLeod coal business, the summers in France where Gavin had learned how porcelain was made.

Greta listened, enthralled, for Gavin was a good storyteller, adding creative license when he felt it was required, in an effort to make her laugh and forget some of her sadness. Sometimes she would play the piano—which was surprisingly well tuned, for having spent so long silent—and Gavin thought of Flora.

Then one day he woke up and the forest had transformed into a magical, snow-covered fairyland that glistened in the morning sunlight. It made him realize just how long he’d been there and, as at the hospital, he was overwhelmed with guilt for allowing himself to fall into the comfortable rhythm with Greta, and making no attempt to get back to the front. Looking out the window, he realized that wouldn’t be possible now until spring. His leg still hurt and the limp remained, and in the back of his mind he wondered if it would ever heal. But he shunned that idea, convinced, with the invincibility of youth, that everything resolved itself at some point.

He got up and went to the window, feeling the cold, dry air mix with warm sun on his skin. Below, a trail of tiny hoofprints in the virgin snow told him deer were about. All at once he thought of Flora, ashamed that, of late, her image was somewhat hazy. He loved her, of course, but his desire and fondness for Greta was intensifying, particularly since two nights ago, when he’d heard her weeping in her room. He’d entered and sat next to her in the dark, stroking her hair. Then—he wasn’t quite sure how—she was in his arms, and their lips had met, hers closed until gently pried open, her surprise and innocent response forcing him to draw back. But he’d stayed, holding her in his arms, and there had been little sleep for him that night.

He dressed, knowing Greta would be waiting in the kitchen for them to have breakfast. They’d become like a couple, spending their days and much of their nights together. Gavin wondered with a shudder just how long he could stand the longing he felt when she laid her head against his chest, her eyes filled with love and hope. He had to keep strict tabs on himself, sure that she was unaware—as were most young girls—of the inevitable consequences of her actions. He loved her too, in his own way, but most of all he wanted her, and being so close day and night was becoming torture.

Later that day it snowed again and they sat in the study, Gavin trying to concentrate on his book, a treatise on the Franco-Prussian War, while Greta worked on a half-finished tapestry she’d found in an upstairs cupboard, oblivious of what her presence was doing to his frayed nerves. He snapped the book shut. “Damn the snow. We can’t even get out for a walk.”

“I like it. It’s so cozy being inside, watching it fall. Especially with you,” she murmured, blushing.

“I wish you’d stop that.” He got up and poked the fire. “I’ll be off as soon as the weather permits. My leg will be better by then. There’s nothing to stop me from trying to get back to my unit. I’ve stayed far too long as it is.”

“But I thought you were happy here,” she whispered, the tapestry abandoned, eyes brimming with hurt surprise.

“How can I be happy, Greta, when I should be doing my duty for my country, not lounging here doing nothing.” He poked the fire harder and a log fell sideways, sending sparks up the chimney. “I can’t spend the rest of my life rotting here. You know that.”

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, troubled.

“Of course not,” he replied testily, hating himself for causing her consternation and bewilderment but unable to help it.

“Then what is it, Gavin, dear?” she asked, getting up. “Tell me. Something’s wrong. I can feel there’s something you don’t want to tell me.”

“It’s nothing. Nothing you’d understand,” he muttered, placing the poker back on its stand next to the fire.

“Why? Perhaps if you explained, I might.” She stood next to him, waiting for him to encircle her in his arms before raising her lips to his.

He pulled away and crossed over to the window. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said weakly. “You’re so innocent. A baby. You—you have no idea what it is like for a man to be close to you, day and night, and not—it doesn’t matter. The least said the better. I’ll get some wood in before dark.”

“No.” She stopped him, eyes glinting. “You are going to tell me exactly what it is I’m doing wrong. I won’t let you fob me off with excuses. I thought we were happy together. Almost as if we were married,” she added, blushing again.

“But married people don’t just—oh, forget it, Greta. You’ll understand one day.”

“No. I want to understand now, Gavin—there may never be a ‘one day.’ I know married people sleep together in the same bed. Is it something to do with that?”

He looked down at her, ashamed of himself, and reached for her hand. “They do more than just sleep together, my darling.”

“I had sort of gathered that. Could we do that other thing?” She came close, face flushed and eyes alight. “Would it make you happy?”

“No.” He shook his head firmly. “It wouldn’t be right. We’re not married, and well—you could end up having a baby.”

“Can you at least explain it to me, Gavin? Then I could decide, couldn’t I?”

“For Christ’s sake, Greta,” he exclaimed, embarrassed.

“Well, it can’t be that awful. After all, most women must do it, don’t they? I want to be yours, darling, all yours…whatever that means.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I would be betraying my loyalty to Franz.”

“Nothing’s wrong anymore, Gavin,” she said, drawing nearer as evening closed in and shadows bounced off the faded brocade walls. “That’s all the past now. We don’t know what will happen tomorrow or the day after, when the war will end, or…or anything. I want to feel married to you, even if we’re not. And maybe someday we can be.”

“No!” he exclaimed, Flora’s face flashing before him. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? Don’t you love me?”

“Of course I love you, Greta, but—oh, it’s too difficult to explain,” he said, pulling her close and casting Flora from his mind as his hand slipped to the small of her back and he pressed her body gently against his. She stiffened. “Do you understand, darling?” he whispered. “Are you sure you want to know, my Greta? Are you certain?” His senses dimmed as once more he made her feel his erection, barely hearing her whispered assent before leading her toward the large daybed.

One by one he undid the tiny buttons of her high-necked blouse, swallowed hard at her quick intake of breath when his hands reached her breast. Still he continued, unhurried, shedding each garment until she stood before him, her smooth, white skin gleaming in the shadows, her hair a burnished mane highlighted by the glow of the flames. Her eyes were misty now, innocent fear replaced by primeval female desire as she reached up, swept away the golden strands that had fallen over her breasts and stepped away from him.

“My God, you’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman on earth,” he whispered, awed yet somewhat hesitant. This was not one of the French whores at Paris Plage whom he’d paid to experiment with, a brief sexual fling like Annelise. He was about to make Greta a woman, and the knowledge was both frightening and exhilarating.

“Gavin,” she whispered, cheeks ablaze, her voice husky with desire. “I want to see you as you are seeing me.” It was as though the power of womanhood had suddenly been revealed to her, paralyzing him. Then she arched unconsciously and the need to feel her skin on his, to possess her entirely, overruled his fear. She watched, face flushed, as he undressed, diverting her eyes when he took off his underwear.

Eyes locked, they caressed one another, their bodies lit by the glow of the fire and a flame within, pure yet so intense it burned both flesh and soul. Then she was in his arms, his hands roaming down her back to the curve of her buttocks, delighting in the delicate texture of her skin, before laying her gently among the blue and gold brocade cushions of the daybed.

Her eyes closed as he trailed his fingers languorously, determined to savor the enchantment for as long as he was able. But determination grew thin when he reached the taut curve of her breasts and her eyes opened, turning from misty green to emerald as she gasped, her nipples hardening deliciously to his touch. And Gavin knew the sudden thrill of original male triumph. He was the first. To touch, to feel, to love her.

He lowered his lips to her breast, her soft moans empowering, instinct guiding him as he reached the soft golden mound between her thighs, feeling her body tense as he parted her. For a moment he was afraid, but her small cry of ecstasy had his thumb caressing and his fingers exploring until the need to possess her became unendurable and gently he parted her thighs, knowing he could wait no longer.

“I’ll try not to hurt you, my darling,” he whispered as her eyes flew open and he gazed down at her through the glimmering shadows, lips parted, her face framed by a sea of gold-flecked strands splayed across the pillow. Then he could wait no longer, and thrust relentlessly, her visceral cry bringing him to a thundering climax.

Later he held her, soothing her in his arms, Greta’s head tucked into the crook of his broad shoulder and her hair falling like a silken mantle over his chest.

Gavin woke shivering at dawn, realizing that Greta must be frozen. He rose, careful not to wake her, his body reacting immediately when she stretched like a kitten then curled among the cushions, a magical fairy princess wrapped in her golden mane.

He moved to the fire and placed a log on the dying embers. Soon one flame caught, then another, and as daylight crept stealthily through the window, he looked for something to cover her with.

It was then he saw the bloodstains on her thighs and belly. For a moment he reproached himself for acting like a brute. Then, as she gave a contented sigh in her sleep, he smiled despite his misgivings and covered her tenderly with a blanket that lay on the chair, realizing he’d better be ready to explain what had happened, for she evidently had very little clue about the facts of life.

He felt very mature and manly as he walked upstairs to the bathroom. Then he went to his room and put on an old velvet dressing gown forgotten by one of the kaiser’s entourage and came down again, armed with a damp towel and her long silk nightgown. She was still fast asleep, so he laid the things near her and went to the kitchen to make coffee, hoping she wouldn’t be upset when she woke. They were using the coffee sparingly, but today was special, so he added an extra spoonful before stoking the stove and putting the water on to boil, totally relaxed for the first time in ages.

Then, as the kettle began to simmer, he pricked up his ears, certain he’d heard an engine. It was far away, but in this silence you could make anything out. He took the kettle off the stove and rushed to the study.

“Greta, darling, wake up.” He shook her shoulder gently.

“Gavin,” she whispered, a lazy, satisfied smile curving her lips.

“Darling, wake up. I think I heard a car. It’s probably nothing, but all the same we’d better be prepared.”

She sat up instantly, pulling the blanket to her chin, then, glancing instinctively toward the window, she burst into laughter. “That’s impossible. It’s still snowing, look.”

Gavin smiled. She was right. There were at least three feet of snow outside. He sighed with relief, realizing it would be impossible for any vehicle to reach Schloss Annenberg under these weather conditions. It must have been his imagination. Perhaps the war was getting nearer. Who could tell? They hadn’t heard any news of the outside world for so long.

“Maybe the war is getting closer and it was anti-aircraft guns,” he said with a shrug, sitting next to her, stroking her hair. “My God, you’re lovely.”

“I feel lovely,” she said, blushing deliciously before sinking back among the cushions. Then all at once she winced, a dull flush darkening her cheeks, and he remembered.

“You—you may want this,” he said, picking up the damp towel hesitantly and handing it to her, embarrassed. “I brought your nightgown, too.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks crimson, her gaze remained riveted on the towel.

“Greta, darling, don’t worry. It’s normal. When I—when we—well, you’ve bled a little, that’s all, but it’s all right,” he finished in a rush, reaching for her hand. “Remember, it’s as if we were married now. We mustn’t be ashamed with one another.” She nodded, hair shrouding her face. “I’ll go and finish making breakfast. You join me in the kitchen when you’re ready.” He leaned forward and kissed her, ready to leave her in privacy. But when his mouth touched hers, her lips parted. Coffee was forgotten as they came together in a frenzied rush, the blanket and dressing gown thrown aside as they cleaved to one another, wanting nothing more than to prolong the enchantment.

He didn’t wait this time; he took her. And soon she was arching, nails sinking into his shoulders, fanning the blaze of their unleashed passion till it burst into flames and he let out a cry.

This time it was his head that sank onto Greta’s breast, tired and satiated. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Flora. But Greta’s fingers were massaging his neck, her nails coursing through his hair, driving him into a delicious stupor where all he could do was smile, sigh and mutter softly while his unshaved chin grazed her breasts and he fell fast asleep.