Brave Hearts (6 page)

The scruffy brown rug on the floor of the boxlike living room was so faded it could scarcely be differentiated from the linoleum floor. A saggy leather sofa sat against one wall, but sunlight streamed in through the open west windows and a soft May breeze riffled the dingy curtains.

“I'll make tea if the gas is still on.”

“It won't be.” Catharine appreciated his casual, easy comment, but nothing could still the excited beat of her heart. She crossed the tiny room to stand beside the card table next to the open window. The gentle sweep of air moved the pile of paper next to the portable typewriter.

She heard Jack close the closet door after hanging up their coats, but she stood unmoving, staring down at the sheet of paper in the typewriter. The page was half-filled, one word over and over again, run together, no spaces, no punctuation, nothing but catharinecatharinecatharine . . .

He stood behind her. “When I got back last night, I tried to write, but all I could think about was you.”

He stood so close to her, but didn't touch her. In the distance, sirens still shrilled. A faint pomp-pomp marked the beginning of the AA fire; then it rolled across the city, louder and louder, the explosive bangs rocking the little room.

Catharine turned to face him. There were dark pouches of weariness under his eyes and lines of fatigue by his mouth. How long had he waited in the cold darkness last night, waited for a shout of success—or failure? That waiting was reflected in his eyes, which had seen so much savagery and despair that they expected nothing good; but, still, stubbornly, they hoped. She felt incredibly near to him, to this intense, taut man with the tough face, full, sensuous mouth, and vividly alive eyes.

They scarcely breathed as they looked at each other.

Catharine wore her hair in a soft bun at the back of her neck, but Jack knew that, if he loosened the pins, her hair would cascade softly down, rippling slowly like dark water. Her eyes, those incredible violet eyes, were the most brilliant color he'd ever seen.

His face softened. He reached up; his large, gentle hand touched the angry scratch across her face.

“You are all right.” He said it like a benediction.

“You were there.” There was still wonder in her voice.

“I'll always be there.”

Tears burned her eyes. If only that could be.

“No tears,” he said softly.

She reached up then, slowly, hesitantly, and her fingers touched his lips.

He cupped her hand in his, and his mouth pressed against her palm.

Then they moved together. Catharine felt the warmth of his breath against her face and the beating of his heart. Desire swept her, but it mingled with fear. It had been so long since she had loved. She felt frightened, uncertain, and, for the first time in so many years, desperately vulnerable.

“I'm not sure . . .”

His hand touched her cheek; a thumb brushed her throat. “Not sure of what?”

She bit her lip and looked away. “Of myself. I don't know, Jack. I haven't loved in so long.”

“You haven't?” Surprise and delight lifted his voice. “Oh, Catharine, I'll help you.”

She finally looked at him, met his gaze. She shook her head. “I'm not a . . . I've never been a very passionate . . .”

“But you will be.” He spoke confidently.

His mouth closed over hers. It was a kiss unlike any other she'd ever known, not like Reggie's restrained and gentle kisses or Spencer's perfunctory kisses. This kiss was wonderfully, magnificently different, so deep and deliberate that it linked her to him, created in her a hunger that flamed alive within her.

His mouth moved across her cheek, touching the hollows of her eyes and the lobe of her ear. His lips and tongue found her mouth again. Finally, he drew away and looked down at her, smiling, his dark blue eyes alive with pleasure.

“Catharine.” He said it jubilantly.

He took her arm, and they turned and walked toward the bedroom.

When they were undressed, she stood almost forlornly by the edge of the bed.

He reached out, took her hands, and slowly drew her toward him; then he picked her up, lifted her to the bed, and held her close. His lips again sought hers, joyously now, confidently. She responded naturally, with a quivering expectation, as his hands caressed her breasts and thighs, the long length of her body, gently, insistently, evocatively. Catharine felt a flood of passion, her breath came quickly, and she cried out for him.

They joined together in a plunging ecstasy, intense and glorious.

When they were quiet, she turned to look into his face.

“I have never felt such happiness, Jack, not ever before.”

It was true. No matter what happened to them; whether tomorrow came or didn't, that lovely and love-filled afternoon would burn in her memory forever. It would shine in her heart because she had discovered for the first time the incandescent glory of passion. She would never be the same again.

Catharine stood in the center of the living room of the apartment she and Spencer had rented. It was a strange place; she wasn't accustomed to it, but the sense of alienation was stronger than that. She didn't belong. This was Spencer's home—and she no longer belonged. She dreaded seeing him. They'd been together only for short periods since the bombing. She had stayed with the neighbor and Spencer at the embassy. But tonight he was supposed to come home.

The telephone rang. Catharine drew her breath in sharply. She waited a moment, then realized with a sick feeling that she had waited for Fontaine to answer it. She crossed the bare floor, her heels clicking against the wood, and picked up the receiver.

“Catharine?”

It was a bad connection; she could scarcely hear Spencer.

“Yes, yes, I'm here.”

His voice was faint and faraway. “I can't make it home tonight. Will you be upset if I don't come?”

Her heart lifted. “It's quite all right,” she said quickly.

“Thank you, Catharine. I do need to keep after it, but if you need anything I'd be glad to come.”

“No, oh, no.” She burbled with words. “Everyone's been so kind. Alice Edwards brought over some clothes, and the Kendalls sent food. Really, Spencer, everyone's rallied ‘round.”

“Splendid. If you're sure you're all right, I'll keep after it.”

“I'll be fine.”

When she hung up the phone, she felt so incredibly relieved that Spencer wasn't coming home. Anyone would understand it—but not forgive it. She was being unfaithful to her husband, and she didn't want to see him. It was something she'd never expected to happen. To her, marriage was a commitment, and the fact that it was now an empty marriage was no excuse.

Catharine turned and walked slowly through the unfamiliar rooms. There was nothing here to remind her of Spencer, but she didn't need familiar furnishings or mementoes to remember her husband. She remembered only too well his disinterest in her, which had been made painfully clear these past two years. Of course, he worked so hard, put in such long hours. His work was more important to him than anything else. Still, if she cared, if they cared, there could have been more between them. They had moved so far apart after Charles's death, but had they ever really come together? She tried for a moment to recall those long-ago days in Paris, the diplomat and the art student. What had happened to them? What kind of people had they become?

She shook her head sadly. She knew what had happened to her, but it still shocked her. She'd fallen in love. She was a married woman but she had, for the first time in her life, fallen in love and experienced passion. She knew that she had permitted this to happen because no one could count on tomorrow.

The days slipped away. Catharine worked hard at the War Relief Society, and every day she met Jack. They greeted each other each time with a sense of triumph. They had survived another night, and now they were together again at least for these few hours. They walked in Regent's Park, pausing sometimes before cages emptied by the war to wonder where their occupants were and when they would return. They met at the Tate Gallery and at the British Museum. They met in little cafes. They met, laughed, talked, and plumbed each other's minds. Every day they ended their meeting at Jack's apartment.

One afternoon in early June, she stirred sleepily in his arms.

His arms tightened around her. “I wish we could stay here forever.”

“Hmm. That would be nice. No more ersatz food or meatless pies, just love, love, love.”

“Delicious love. It sounds better and better.”

She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, loving the rough feel of stubble against her fingers. “Good enough to eat,” she judged. She drew his face down; they kissed, a light, exuberant kiss.

“Do you know,” Catharine said suddenly, “you are quite wonderfully male.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I should hope so.”

“But you are,” she insisted. Her hands slipped down to his shoulders, then pressed against his muscular chest. “Really good enough to eat.”

“There seems to be a particular emphasis on food today,” he said drily. “Hey, that reminds me. You aren't going to believe this, but I have a chocolate éclair in my fridge.”

“No!”

“Cross my heart.”

“I didn't think there was a pastry in London.”

“It isn't from a shop. One of the girls at the office made it and brought it to me.”

“Oh, she did,” Catharine drawled. “Now why should she have done that?”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” His voice oozed satisfaction.

“Not really. But, who is she and, more important, why did she so favor you?”

Jack propped his hands behind his head. “That sounds like a Victorian assignation.”

Catharine pushed up on an elbow and looked down into his laughing face. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Mildred. She's tall and slim, kind of like a blond Hedy Lamarr.”

“A blond Hedy Lamarr,” Catharine mused. “I can tell I have my work cut out for me.” She leaned forward and her hair swept against him like a dark curtain. She kissed the edge of his mouth. Her tongue teased at his ear.

“Nice, nice, nice,” he murmured approvingly.

Her lips moved against his cheek, his chin, down to his chest, and her fingers lightly caressed the hardness of his stomach.

“Catharine.”

She pressed her face against the wiry hairs on his chest and felt the strength of his arousal against her breasts.

“Catharine.” Insistent, demanding.

She lifted her face and asked lightly, “You don't even like chocolate éclairs, do you. Jack?”

He twined his hand in her dark, flowing hair.

“Do you?” she asked again.

“Oh, hell, no,” he replied. “Come here.”

She came.