Clash by Night (27 page)

“I used to lie awake in Langtot’s barn and think about touching you like this,” he whispered, his mouth against her ear.

She could feel the buttons on his uniform blouse pressing through the knit cloth of her sweater. The strength and warmth of his hard body enveloped hers. His hands came up again, caressing, and her nipples swelled into his palms. Laura lifted her arms and wound them around his neck, dropping her head against his shoulder. He pressed his lips to her nape, pushing aside the wealth of hair to find the soft skin along the line of her shoulders. His fingers worked down into her skirt band, pulling her top loose, and he turned Laura to face him as he lifted it over her head.

Her hair tumbled back onto her bare shoulders when he dropped the sweater to the floor. He stood looking at her, at the slim white arms and narrow rib cage, the brief brassiere exposing the tops of her breasts. Then he bent and kissed the valley between them, almost spanning her waist with his two hands.

Laura bit her lip as he unhooked the bra and let it fall, taking a nipple between his lips almost before he saw it. She swayed and he caught her, lifting her onto the bed and dropping next to her, cradling her in his arms as he kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her hair. Breathless, ardent, she lifted to accommodate him as he stripped off the rest of her clothes. When she tried to reciprocate her fingers grew clumsy with his blouse, his belt, and he put her hands away. He got up to undress, never taking his eyes from her prone form.
 

He tossed his clothes to the foot of the bed and her eyes raked over him. He was beautiful, ready for her, lean and muscular, perfectly male. When he moved to join her she reached up eagerly, and he moaned with gratification as his naked body covered hers.

“I knew it would be this way for us,” he muttered, gasping as she explored the broad expanse of his chest, kissing the well defined pectorals, the line of chestnut hair that ran down to his abdomen. He clenched his teeth as she touched him, her fingers light and gentle yet tantalizing, then pushed her back on the bed, kissing her feverishly. He held her with one arm and caressed her with his other hand until she was tugging him, twining her legs around him, begging to be taken.

Harris drove into her wildly and she cried out. He pulled back and looked at her, panting, his face bathed in perspiration.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his fiery cheek.

He turned his head to kiss his fingers, his eyes closing luxuriously, and then followed her instruction.

* * *

Laura slipped out from under her lover’s arm, and Harris protested in his sleep, mumbling and trying to hold on to her. She waited a moment to make sure he would not waken, then padded barefoot to the sink when he drifted back into slumber.

She sponged off with the tepid water, several degrees warmer than that available in the bathroom down the hall. She pinned her hair on top of her head, noting in the mirror above the basin that her face was still flushed and her eyes looked as if she had taken a fever. And so she had.

Still naked and unconcerned about it, Laura went back to the bed and studied Dan Harris. He was sprawled on his stomach, his head turned to one side, the arm that had cradled her remaining outstretched across the bed. She looked at the graceful athlete’s body and remembered being joined to it: the scent of him, the sounds he made, the tensile strength of his limbs. She saw the cleat scar on his back, the healing burns from the factory fire on his arm, the patch of down that grew at the base of his spine. She sat next to him and touched it and he stirred under her hand.

He was as different from her husband as two men could be. Thierry had been lighthearted, playful in sex; this man made love the same way he did everything else, with a single minded intensity that erased all other concerns. His life was so black and white, Laura thought, he always knew just what to do: fight the Germans, free the French, save the world. It was an insular, unforgiving attitude and it frightened her. If she failed to be wonderful would he be disappointed? There was no room in his life for second best.

Sighing, she lay next to him and he enfolded her immediately, flooding her chilled body with radiant heat. She drew the sheet over both of them and fell asleep.
 

* * *

Laura rolled over in the bed and encountered an empty pillow. She opened her eyes and saw Harris propped up on one elbow, watching her.

“Hi,” she said.

He smiled.

“What time is it?”

He turned his wrist to look at the watch face on the inside of it. “Seven o’clock,” he said.

“In the evening?” Even as she said it she realized it wasn’t possible that they had slept through to the morning.

“Yup.”

“Dinner time?” she asked hopefully.

He groaned, bending to plant a kiss on her forehead before vaulting off the bed. He fished around for his shorts and pulled them on before saying in a martyred tone, “I suppose now I have to feed you.”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Do you want to go down to the dining room?”

Her expression became pained.

He sighed. “There’s a bell pull in the hall to get somebody from the kitchen, but their response time is not exactly meteoric.” He looked around, mystified. “And first I have to find my pants.”

Laura lifted one hip and produced them from under her leg.

“Thank you very much,” he said stiffly, feigning offended dignity. He put them on and headed for the door as Laura coughed imperatively behind him.

He turned. “What?”
 

She pointed to his bare chest. “Don’t you think you’d better put on your shirt?”

“The bell is just outside the door.”

“One of these proper British matrons might see you and faint from the excitement,” she said breathlessly, batting her lashes.

He threw a pillow at her, but she noticed he slipped into his uniform blouse before he left the room.

He returned five minutes later, looking doubtful. “Well, I tried.”

“What does that mean?” Laura asked, laughing.

“The dairy wagon must have hit town hard today. They seem to have an unlimited supply of cheese and nothing else.”

“What did you get?”

“‘Toasted cheese sandwiches,’” he replied, delivering the phrase in a Cockney accent.

“I guess we should have eaten the tart tarts when we had the chance,” she said gloomily.

He nodded. “I hope you’re in a patient mood. This should take approximately the same number of hours grandma needed to prepare Thanksgiving dinner.” He sat next to Laura on the bed and tapped his cheek. “Put one right there.”

Laura kissed him and he pulled her into his arms. She lay with her head on his shoulder and fingered his dog tags through his unbuttoned shirt. The metal oblongs were warm from his skin.

“‘Harris, Daniel P.,’” she read aloud. “What does the P. stand for?”

“Patrick.”

“Ah-ha. Did your mother come from Ireland?” she sang softly.

“Grandmother. And grandfather. My mom’s maiden name was Reilly.”
 

“I see. That’s where you got the blue eyes.”

“And the bad temper,” he added, grinning.

“You don’t have a bad temper,” she said.

“That’s because you’re seeing me on my best behavior. I’m trying to impress a lady.”

She could have argued that she’d seen him under all sorts of adverse circumstances while he was in France and had never been disillusioned. Instead she dropped the medals back against his chest, observing, “You never take these off.”
 

“Never,” he confirmed.

“Why not?”

“Regulations. They’re for identification purposes.”

“Identification of bodies,” Laura said.

He didn’t answer, but she could see she had spoiled his good spirits. He was silent for a time and then said, “I wonder if I did a very selfish thing in asking you to come here.” He got up and stood at the window, looking down into the street.

“Why selfish?” Laura asked quietly.

He gestured at the city as if a battle were taking place there. “This is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better. It could go on for a long time.” He shrugged. “I don’t want us to be...” he gestured helplessly, “casual.”

“Ships passing in the night?” she said, smiling at the cliché.

“Don’t joke about it,” he said tightly. “None of this is under my control. There’s nothing I can do to change the war, or our situation.” He balled his fist and smacked it into his other hand. “I can’t
do
anything.”
 

And that infuriated him, she knew. Pain and fear and uncertainty he could endure but powerlessness, never.
 

Laura wrapped the sheet around her and got up, putting her arms about his waist from behind. “We’ll have the memories,” she said quietly, putting her cheek against his back. “We still have five days left, Dan. Let’s enjoy them.”

He turned and held her, speaking into her ear. “I don’t want to lose what we have. I don’t want you to forget me.”

“Oh, Dan, I won’t.”

He stepped back and looked at her. “Everything is so uncertain, Laura,” he said, stroking her cheek. “You and I both know that what happened in Fains was only the beginning.”

She nodded. “And Alain, who wanted to do so much, is already dead.”

“He was a great kid,” Harris said quietly.

“Yes, he was.”

“He saved my ass the night of the raid,” Harris said, releasing her. He put his hands in his pockets and regarded her levelly.

Laura looked at him inquiringly.

“I was coming round a corner, after we were inside the factory, and one of the guards was about to spot me when Alain took him from behind. I would have been dead meat for sure.”

“He never said anything about it,” Laura whispered.

Harris looked down. “It must have been hard for him to do that, feeling as he did about you, but he never hesitated.”

Laura shook her head. “Dan, it wasn’t serious. He was just a kid,” she said, as much for her sake as for his.

“He was old enough to know what he wanted,” Harris replied evenly. “That’s why he resented me. Territorial imperative. And with a male animal that’s pretty potent stuff.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Yeah?” Harris called.

“Your order, sir.”

Harris shot Laura a glance. “And it’s still the same year,” he mumbled. “Here goes nothing.”

Laura moved out of the busboy’s line of vision and sat on the bed. Harris returned momentarily carrying a tray.

“Looks edible,” he commented, sitting next to her and balancing the burden on his knees.

A few bites confirmed his opinion.

“Not bad,” he said, wolfing the first half of his sandwich.

Laura nodded, chewing.

He poured tea for both of them, demolishing the rest of his sandwich, and then launched into the blueberry scones that came with it.

“You must be very hungry,” Laura said dryly, watching him.

He popped the last crumb into his mouth and washed it down with tea, setting the tray on the floor. Then he grabbed her and pressed her back onto the bed.

“You wore me out, woman,” he said fiercely. “I have to replenish my strength.” He ripped the sheet off her and kissed her stomach loudly, smacking his lips.

“Daniel!” Laura protested, laughing in amazement. She held the remains of her sandwich aloft, squirming.

“Hold still,” he murmured, warming to his task. His mouth moved lower and Laura closed her eyes. The sandwich fell from her hand to the floor.

“So sweet,” he murmured. “So soft.” He trailed his tongue across her inner thigh, and down, as she gasped, tangling her fingers in his hair.

Thunder rolled outside the window, accompanying a fresh downpour of rain, but neither of them heard it.

* * *

Laura awoke to a siren in the middle of the night and her first thought was of fire. Then she realized the sound of the alarm was different, and in the next instant she remembered where she was.

Harris threw back the blanket and jumped out of bed.

“Air raid,” he yelled over the din. “Get dressed.” He threw her clothes at her in an unceremonious jumble.

Laura sat up and reached for her skirt as the sound of running feet pounded in the hall outside their room. Harris pulled on his pants and then tossed her his uniform raincoat when he saw her fussing with her blouse.

“Leave that,” he ordered impatiently, taking the blouse out of her hand. He bundled her into the coat and belted it around her like a robe. He thrust his arms into his shirt and then grabbed Laura’s hand, hauling her to the already crowded corridor outside their room.

 
The noise was terrible. The sound of the siren seemed to be increasing in volume, though Laura was sure it was an aural illusion created by the incessant assault on her eardrums. People thronged toward the stairs, ignoring the tiny lift and descending rapidly to the first floor. It was a remarkably orderly progression; the British were getting used to this drill very quickly. The hotel guests, still adjusting to the crisis on the way down, were wearing oddly assorted clothing and clutching sleepy children in their arms.