Dancing in the Moonlight (45 page)

Two weeks later, on a fine May evening tinged with wood-smoke and the sound of children playing in the park opposite, a lone figure stopped outside Lucy’s house. After
the hell he had been through, the evening was so quintessentially English that it was painful. He wanted to breathe it in, to absorb it, to roll in it and take it in through the pores of his skin.
This was what had made him determined to survive the cruelties of the new camp commandant who had replaced Walther Von Brauchitsch when he’d been taken ill. Because this meant Lucy. And it
hadn’t been the physical afflictions or the starvation rations that had nearly done for him – oh no. It had been the mental starvation he’d endured, that they had all endured, of
having no contact with home. No letters, not even a postcard. The commandant had known how to break a man’s spirit all right, and he had broken a few. But not his. Because she was waiting for
him. Heaven and hell might pass away, but Lucy would still be waiting for him. Of that he was sure. He hadn’t been sure of anything else in that hell-hole, but he had been sure of Lucy.

It was dusk, and it was beginning to get dark. As he stood there, he heard a mother calling her children in the park and then after a minute or two all was quiet. He had been travelling for more
than twenty-four hours and he was tired, so tired, but he knew he wouldn’t rest until he saw her. Until he knew she was safe and well. Until she was in his arms.

He walked up the garden path and knocked on the front door, the nervous excitement that had sustained him over the last days not apparent in his exhausted face, where deep lines had been carved
by pain and the terrible things he had seen done to his friends.

When she opened the door she was even more beautiful than he remembered. And then she fell into his arms, as he had imagined she would, and they were kissing, kissing, kissing until the breath
had left their bodies and they had to take great gasping pulls at it.

‘Lucy, Lucy . . .’ He had been going to say so much, but he could only murmur her name, and his heart-cry was answered as she whispered his name in such a way it touched the soul of
him. ‘I came as soon as I could, the very second . . . ’

‘I know, I know you would have, my darling.’

‘You’re so beautiful, I can’t believe how beautiful.’

He was aware of her drawing him into the house, her voice thick with tears when she whispered, ‘They’re all out. There’s no one here. I thought one of them had forgotten their
key . . .’ And then they were half-laughing and half-crying and kissing some more.

A long time later they sat in the sitting room, trying to begin to fill in the last two years, but unable to stop touching each other and kissing and caressing.

Lucy was shocked at how ill and thin Jacob looked, but at the same time he had never appeared more handsome to her. He was here. It wasn’t a dream. The war was over and Jacob was here.
Between kisses she murmured, ‘You must be hungry. I’ll get you something to eat.’

‘You still wear it.’ He didn’t seem to have heard her, his eyes on the tiny silver heart at her throat. He reached out, touching the necklace almost reverently.

‘All the time.’ Her blue eyes were misty.

‘Dance with me, Lucy.’

‘What?’

‘Now, in the moonlight. Before anyone comes home. Dance with me again.’ He pulled her to her feet, his arm going round her slim waist. ‘Remember? Remember how it
was?’

‘You told me about the stars,’ she whispered tremulously. ‘And the frost sparkled like diamonds.’

Jacob led her into the garden and the soft May night embraced them in scented warmth. ‘There’s no frost,’ he murmured into the soft silk of her hair as he took her into his
arms and held her close, ‘but the moonlight is the same, and we’re together.’

They began to dance, wrapped in each other’s arms and flowing as one, as they’d done so long ago in that other life. Lucy shut her eyes, heady with love. The long years melted away
and she was a young girl again, on the brink of womanhood, dancing in the moonlight with the boy she loved.

Their lives were about to begin . . .

Rita Bradshaw was born in Northamptonshire, where she still lives today. At the age of sixteen she met her husband – whom she considers her soulmate – and they have
two daughters and a son, and several grandchildren. Much to her delight, Rita’s first novel was accepted for publication and she went on to write many more successful novels under a pseudonym
before writing using her own name.

In any spare moments she loves walking her dogs, reading, eating-out and visiting the cinema and theatre, as well as being involved in her local church and animal welfare.

BY RITA BRADSHAW

Alone Beneath the Heaven

Reach for Tomorrow

Ragamuffin Angel

The Stony Path

The Urchin’s Song

Candles in the Storm

The Most Precious Thing

Always I’ll Remember

The Rainbow Years

Skylarks at Sunset

Above the Harvest Moon

Eve and Her Sisters

Gilding the Lily

Born to Trouble

Forever Yours

Break of Dawn

Dancing in the Moonlight

First published 2013 by Macmillan

This electronic edition published 2013 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-230-76623-5

Copyright © Rita Bradshaw 2013

The right of Rita Bradshaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital,
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liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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