Never Leave Me (7 page)

‘Of course.' This time his voice was sharp-edged. Anger had come hard on the heels of desire. He was a man who prided himself on always having his emotions under tight control. That he had momentarily lost that control was, to him, unforgiveable.

‘Le Rosey explains your flawless command of French,' the Comte said, striving to recover the easy atmosphere that had existed before Lisette had entered the room and then left it in so extraordinary a manner.

The slight, almost imperceptible shrug of Dieter's shoulder was almost Gallic. ‘It is my second language,' he said, suddenly bored with the evening, annoyed by the Comte's blatant desire to please.

Henri shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. The rapport that had so unexpectedly sprung up between them had been irretrievably lost. If he failed in his task, it would be Lisette's fault, not his. He cleared his throat. ‘My wife is not very strong, Major Meyer. Before the war we had plenty of staff but since then, things have become very difficult. Lisette helps admirably, but the chateau is large and my wife is beginning to feel the strain. Marie has a niece who would be willing to come and take over most of the chores in the kitchen … with your permission, of course.'

Dieter swirled the cognac around in his glass, suddenly wary. ‘Is Marie's niece a village girl?' he asked with deceptive lack of interest.

‘No.' The Comte's reply was uncomfortably swift. ‘She's from Caen. A good girl. Reliable.'

Dieter held the Comte's eyes steadily for a moment. ‘Are her papers in order?'

‘Oh yes, yes,' the Comte said eagerly. Too eagerly.

Dieter felt disappointment settle cold and hard deep in his gut. Henri de Valmy, a man who had probably never lied in his life, was lying now. He drained his cognac, setting the empty glass carefully on a nearby table. ‘Then you had better tell her to come immediately,' he said, his voice so indifferent that Henri de Valmy suppressed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

It was done. The girl would be here, within Valmy. The first task of his self-appointed mission was complete.

‘The polo at Deauville, before the war, was the best in Europe,' he said, resuming the earlier topic that had seemingly bridged the barriers between them. ‘I played myself until I broke my wrist. It's an infuriating thing to happen to any player. I never had the same strength again.'

His voice was filled with regret and Dieter's eyes darkened. Damn the man. He should never have allowed even the merest cordiality to have sprung up between them. They were enemies. Oppressor and oppressed. A second ago de Valmy had lied to him and there could only have been one reason for such a lie. Now, amiably, he was trying to gain his sympathy for an accident that, if it had happened to him, would have filled him with equal regret and frustration.

He glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. ‘It is eleven o'clock and I still have work to do,' he said abruptly. ‘Goodnight, Comte de Valmy.'

Swiftly he strode from the room, wishing that he had never entered it. First of all Lisette de Valmy had disconcerted him so profoundly that even now his chest felt tight, as if an iron band constrained it. Then Henri de Valmy had lied to him and all his doubts and suspicions as to Lisette's activities had been re-awakened. He wanted the Resistance groups all along the coastline routed out, watched and questioned. He wanted any information, however slight, that would give him a clue to the enemies'plans. But he did not want to see Lisette and her father escorted to Gestapo headquarters at Caen. Never, even when he had served at the Russian front, had he longed so intensely for the war to be over.

He stared sombrely down at the long table and the large scale maps of Calvados spread open upon it. Away to the east was Deauville. Deauville, where Henri de Valmy had played polo. He wished to God that polo was still being played there. That there were no mines deforming the beach. No pill-boxes frowning out over the elegant Promenade des Planches. He knew grimly that he would never play there. That Lisette de Valmy would never cheer him on from the stands, a ridiculously large summer hat on her cloud of dark hair, a pretty silk dress enhancing her slender figure. He swore savagely under his breath. His task was to make sure that Deauville remained firmly under German occupation. Polo belonged in another world. A world he sometimes doubted he would ever see again.

Lisette had fled to her room blindly, self-disgust and loathing weighing her down like a tangible force, crushing the breath from her body, choking her sobs as she slammed the door of her room shut behind her, leaning her weight against the centuries-smooth wood, sliding down against it, her arms hugging her shaking body.

She wanted him. Dear God in Heaven, she wanted him. Wanted to feel his hard, lean body against hers. To feel the spring of wheat-gold hair against the palms of her hands. To hear the dark, rich voice murmuring her name. She pressed her hands to her face, fighting for calm. She wasn't sane. She couldn't be. She was in the grip of hysteria. If she waited for a little while, the moment of madness would surely pass. She would realise that she would no more long to copulate with a German than with a pig.

One moment passed, and then another. The violent trembling that had overtaken her like a seizure steadied. She found that she could breathe without having to gasp for air. She leaned her head against the wood and waited for the relief of laughter at her foolishness. It did not come. Only the truth faced her. Unbelievable. Unacceptable. Unendurable.

She never knew how long she sat there, huddled on the floor, her back against the door. Her mother came and knocked and asked if she was all right. If she needed an aspirin. She had replied yes to the first question and no to the second, and had made no effort to open the door. After a little while her mother had gone away and she had remained, unmoving, in the darkness.

She had never been in love, but she knew that it wasn't love that was devastating her now. How could it be? She hadn't spoken more than a dozen words to him, and those had been angry and scathing.

She hugged her knees tighter against her chest. It was surely what the Bible referred to as sinful lust. She shuddered. Nothing she had ever heard or read had prepared her for it. It was as if her body were completely divorced from her mind. Logic and sanity screamed that never, ever, could she bear to be touched by a man who had occupied her country; her home. Yet if she closed her eyes and thought of him, heat surged through her and she found herself wondering what it would be like to touch his skin, inhale the male fragrance of him, to see the hard, grey eyes grow dark with passion.

At last, unsteadily, she rose to her feet. She alone knew her despicable secret No one else knew, nor would they ever know. She would continue to live and behave as if the truth had never been brought home to her. He was her enemy and he would remain her enemy. She would treat her physical weakness as if it were a disease. She would fight it; conquer it; and one day she would be free of it. Slowly she undressed and climbed into bed, staring into the darkness for hour after hour, painfully coming to terms with the knowledge that there existed within her a person she had never even remotely imagined. Only when the night sky pearled to grey, presaging dawn, did she finally fall into a restless, troubled sleep.

‘Marie's niece makes a commendably fine omelette,' her father said two days later at breakfast. He glanced across at his daughter as he spoke. She had been looking extremely pale lately, almost ill. ‘Are you sure you won't have one, Lisette?'

She nodded, continuing to sip at her chicory, ignoring the warm croissants on her plate.

A shaft of worry troubled him. ‘Are you feeling well, Lisette? Do you still have your headache?'

‘No Papa. Please don't look so anxious.'

‘But you're not eating properly, Lisette. You're bound to feel unwell unless you eat. Isn't there anything at all that you would like for breakfast?'

He sounded so concerned that she managed a wry smile. ‘A cup of genuine coffee instead of this ghastly chicory.'

He grinned ruefully. ‘I'm afraid even Elise can't manage that.'

‘Elise. Is that her name? I haven't seen her yet. What is she like?'

Young, he wanted to say. Too young for what she has to do.

The reality of her arrival had filled him with fresh doubts and fears.

‘Pretty,' he said, and pushed his plate away, his appetite lost.

They sat together silently, both wanting to discuss the girl's arrival and its implications, but too conscious of the danger of being overheard to do so.

‘I think I'll cycle into the village this morning,' she said at last. ‘The daffodils are out in the woods. They look glorious.'

His eyes met hers. What she was really saying was that she hoped to see Paul Gilles and let him know that Elise had arrived safely and without arousing suspicion.

‘Yes,' he said unhappily, aware again of frustration and impotence; ‘The forsythia has bloomed early. I think I'll go and cut some for indoors. A blaze of colour will cheer us up.'

The linden trees flanking the drive were already beginning to take on a verdant haze. The tight green buds were unfurling and the fresh, clean scent of spring was strong in the air. Once out in the open she could breathe more easily. There was no chance here of suddenly rounding a corner and being confronted by him.

She cycled down the long, gravelled drive, surprising a grey squirrel that scampered quickly out of her path. The late February wind had softened to a breeze. It blew refreshingly against her face, tugging at her hair, tinging her pale cheeks with a hint of colour. At the end of the drive she swung left towards the village, free-wheeling down through the beech woods to the high-hedged lanes of Sainte-Marie.

The village was in sight when the chauffeur-driven Horch came down behind her, hard and fast. She pulled over as far as she could towards the steeply banked hedgerow but the powerful car gave her no room. Her front wheel swerved, ramming into the grassy bank and sending her flying from the saddle. The bike fell heavily against her, the handlebar gouging her thigh, slithering to the ground, leaving a hideous trail of blood in its wake.

Through a sea of pain she was aware that the car had screamed to a halt; that someone was running to her aid.

‘Sind Sie schon gut?'

The harsh voice was familiar but the words made no sense. There was a ringing in her ears and colours and shapes zigzagged crazily.

‘
Gott in Himmel! Are you all right?'
His voice was urgent, his arm tight around her shoulders, his eyes brilliant with anger and anxiety.

‘Yes … I …' She tried to pull away from him but it was impossible. She seemed to have lost all her strength and there was something hot and sticky running down her leg.

‘Good God, you could have been killed!' He swung his head round, shouting at his petrified chauffeur to open the rear door of the Horch and then, as she gasped aloud in protest, he swung her up in his arms, striding with her towards the car, the blood on her leg smearing his immaculate uniform.

‘No … please. I can walk.' Her head was spinning with concussion, with shock, and with the desperate need to free herself from his touch.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' he said curtly, laying her on the leather rear seats of the Horch. ‘You couldn't walk a step.'

She caught a glimpse of the white, frightened face of the chauffeur and felt a surge of pity for him. He looked like a man whose career had come to a very sudden end.

‘Please …' she said again weakly. There was blood on the luxurious interior of the car, on his uniform and on his hands. He edged into the seat beside her.

‘Can you sit up if I help you? I want to take your coat off and see how badly you've been hurt.'

She tried to protest and couldn't. His arm slid once more round her shoulders, pulling her against him so that her head was resting on his chest. She could hear his heart beating, smell the faint aroma of the spice and lemon cologne that he used, and knew with terror that her nightmare of physical capitulation was on the verge of becoming reality.

‘Please …' she gasped again. ‘You must let me go. I'm all right. It's only a graze.'

‘Stop being childish,' he said peremptorily, ignoring her protests, easing first one of her arms out of her coat and then the other, with stunning gentleness.

‘Can I help, sir?' the chauffeur asked nervously from his refuge behind the steering wheel.

‘For Christ's sake, give me the first aid box!'

The chauffeur had been too dumbfounded by the Major's reaction to the accident to have thought of the first aid box. He stumbled from the car, hurrying round to the boot, wondering what the devil the fuss was about. He had recognised the de Valmy girl, of course, but even so, he saw no reason for the Major to behave like a man possessed simply because she had been thrown from her bicycle.

‘Please, you must let me go,' she said, trying to pull away from him, her voice stronger, as the wave of dizziness that had engulfed her when she fell receded.

‘Not until I've seen how badly hurt you are.' he said grimly, ‘and I can't do that until I've taken your stockings off.'

‘No!'
This time her protest was so vehement that he paused, disconcerted. There was no trace of the ice-cool disdain with which she usually treated him. Her eyes were wide as she shrank back against the leather seat and with a shock he realised how deep her detestation of him must be. Physical revulsion was not a reaction he was accustomed to. That he was experiencing it now, when he had allowed his own feelings for her to surface, infuriated him. ‘You'll damn well do as you're told!' he rasped, taking the preferred first aid box from the chauffeur, flicking the lid open and seeing with relief that there was a plentiful supply of bandages.

Her eyes flared at his high-handed manner. She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but her throat was so tight that no words would come and she only knew he couldn't touch her so intimately. It would be beyond endurance. Beyond forgetting.