Книга - The Stolen Years

The Stolen Years
Fiona Hood-Stewart


Spanning three generations and a century of love, loss and longing, The Stolen Years is a stunning tale of secrets and betrayals, of an empire forged from the seeds of revenge…and the legacy that withstood it all.On the battlefields of World War I, twin brothers Gavin and Angus MacLeod are torn apart in one horrific instant that changes their lives forever. Believing his brother dead, a shattered, tormented Angus returns home to Scotland and takes his place as heir to the family title and husband to his brother's fiancée.But Gavin has survived. Believing he was betrayed by his twin, he creates a new identity for himself in America. And as he helms an elite china empire through decades of war and turbulence, peace and prosperity, he nurses a bitter obsession for revenge.Fate and one remarkable woman will unite the brothers' lives in astonishing unforeseen ways. Yet the children of these men will bear the sins of their fathers. And as the twenty-first century dawns, the secrets that have shaped their destinies will finally be revealed.







“Angus,” she gasped in amazement. “Is it really you?” Tears burst forth as she threw her arms around the stiff, motionless figure. Then, leaning back and holding his hands, she realized that his eyes were devoid of expression. “Angus.” She shook him anxiously. “Angus, it’s me, Flo. Say something, please.” She shook him again gently. Then another thought occurred. Gavin. Where was Gavin? She glanced around, as though expecting to see him among the group of men smoking and playing cards. Then she squeezed Angus’s hand once more.

“Angus, you’re all right now. You’re with me.” His eyes flickered and her heart leapt. “Oh, Angus, darling, please. Please come back. Please tell me where Gavin is,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“Dead.” The voice was flat.

She stared at him, then shook her head. “No. It can’t be. No.” She shook her head again, her hands gripping his sleeve savagely. “Not Gavin.” She began shaking, then laughed hysterically. “People like Gavin don’t get killed. They’re immortal.”

“It should have been me,” he whispered.

“A thrilling drama of passion and revenge, brilliantly set against the epic backdrop of the twentieth century.”

—Carla Neggers, bestselling author of The Carriage House


Also available from MIRA Books and

FIONA HOOD-STEWART

THE JOURNEY HOME




The Stolen Years

Fiona Hood-Stewart





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


As always, for my boys,

Sergio and Diego.

For Daddy,

in loving memory.

This book is dedicated to all the men and women

who gave their youth, their hopes and dreams

and all too often their lives in the name of freedom.

May we honor them by preserving their legacy.

F.H.S.


My deep gratification to David d’Albis for his untiring dedication in helping me research this manuscript.

To Jean d’Albis, of Limoges, France, for recounting events as they took place and for the documents he furnished me with.

Many thanks to Laure Kovats, Fran Garfunkel, Frances Lynch, Carter Parsley, Bonnie Skop,

Miranda Stecyk and Donald Maas, my agent, for all the help along the way.




Contents


Part One (#u5b11eecf-2fc4-5a74-9bb3-858e688fbcc4)

Chapter 1 (#uc9597875-f3bf-5a40-b824-f3660d44abae)

Chapter 2 (#ue762e3a5-a0aa-5412-84f9-34c78a8e18ed)

Chapter 3 (#u93fb7808-1fcf-5010-b8d2-4f6d69b435a9)

Chapter 4 (#u6b769620-b854-55bc-abfd-a3c2b074947c)

Chapter 5 (#uaf50b1c7-b764-56ff-ba32-eae87eb5892c)

Chapter 6 (#ubcc32c58-ba60-57d3-ad1a-164999847c8a)

Chapter 7 (#ub76b70cf-7f8c-5837-a55b-29f1ff8fe12f)

Chapter 8 (#u69dbd97e-809c-5f28-8223-48160f73b91f)

Chapter 9 (#u1de3f813-7e88-5194-b87a-5851aa20adf0)

Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)




Part One

1917–1918


Surely, surely there must be somewhere in which the sweet intimacies begun here may be continued, and the hearts broken by this war may be healed.

—Vera Britain

A Testament of Youth




1


Edinburgh, Scotland, 1917

She waited, tiptoeing along the chilly corridor and creeping quietly into the darkened ward, listening intently as the matron’s footsteps faded to a distant whisper on the worn flagged staircase. Except for the occasional muffled groan, the long row of narrow metal beds was quiet, their chipped white paint glittering harshly in the filtered moonlight.

Taking advantage of the matron’s absence, Flora Finlay sat down gingerly in the single uncomfortable wooden chair the ward offered, careful not to crush her starched uniform. After casting a covert glance at the door, she finally opened the letter that had been burning her inner pocket since early that morning. As Angus’s neat, precise letters swam before her, she chided herself for the twinge of disappointment, aware she should be thankful for any news at all. Unfolding the single sheet of flimsy paper, she held it close to the dim aureole of light escaping from under the battered shade of the solitary lamp and smiled. Angus’s writing reminded her of Miss Linton, their old governess, who on more than one occasion had made pointed comparisons between Gavin and Flora’s sloppy calligraphy and Angus’s perfectly formed loops.

Skimming the text rapidly, she jumped hopefully to the end, knowing it was silly but unable to help herself. Why couldn’t Gavin write something, however short, in his own hand, instead of sending vague messages through his twin? But that was Gavin, she realized with a sigh. Seeing him in her mind’s eye, bright-eyed and impulsive, she wondered why she expected him to be any different, when this was the way she loved him.

The letter was dated three weeks earlier and was postmarked from Arras, where the fighting on the western front was at its worst. Terrifying images of the twins, lying buried in the bloodied gut of a shell-torn trench, their features unrecognizable amidst the mass of mangled bodies, flashed through Flora’s mind in eerie succession. But she ousted them and instead concentrated her attention on the letter, knowing the matron could return at any minute.

Today it pours and we’re up to our calves in mud. The only trees that have survived the shelling are two stringy poplars to our right, but the landscape bears all the scars of war. After the last onslaught things have been fairly stalemate, but it is my feeling there is more to come. How they expect us to fight in this pockmarked, muddied mess beats me. There simply isn’t any suitable terrain for the kind of breakthrough we hope for.

But I’m rambling on about the war, when what you really want is news of your beloved Gavin.

We are in a front-line trench now. I know that sounds worse, but you mustn’t worry. Actually, it’s preferable. Gerry’s shells fly over us rather than straight at us—for now, at any rate.

Oh God, Flo! It all seems so bloody futile. We hammer them, they hammer us, and for what? I’m sure the German chaps, huddled in their muddy, lice-infested dugouts across no-man’s-land are asking themselves the same damn questions we are. Wishing they could get on with their lives, instead of being burrowed here like moles, for God knows how much longer, waiting to be wounded or die.

But once again I’ve deviated and I know you must be thoroughly impatient. Gavin is up to his old tricks, hobnobbing with the French, as I told you in my last letter. Now that they know we both speak the language fluently, they’ve selected us for all the liaison missions! Need I tell you whose idea that was? I hate every minute of it, but Gavin loves it. He is utterly fearless, and I have come to the conclusion that he thrives on danger. The other day he went on a reconnaissance mission where he all but got himself killed. I begged him not to go but he listens to no one, and is as determined and headstrong as ever. Unlike me, he is a true officer and leader of men. Even the seasoned soldiers listen to him, which is quite something. You can imagine how ridiculous it makes one feel, giving orders to a man old enough to be our grandfather, who knows much more than we ever will. There’s one old fellow in the unit who fought in South Africa and is probably the best man we have. Doesn’t it make you question a system that appoints young men like Gavin and me as officers, merely because we are gentlemen?

I have asked Gavin to write but he continues to claim he is a poor correspondent. He sends his love, as always, and says how much he misses you. I miss you too, Flora dearest, but I know that won’t make up for his not writing…

He had sent his love. She read quickly through to the end, then let the letter droop. Swallowing her disappointment, Flora reminded herself that to be ungrateful was to tempt fate. Then, folding the page carefully, she prayed that the two men she loved most were still alive. Too often she had witnessed the arrival of these precious letters from the front, seen the relief and joy they raised, only to be dashed hours later when it was learned they were to be the last.

She turned her thoughts to the ward, the smell of antiseptic and the stifled sighs coming from the iron beds, and rose, slipping the letter into her apron pocket. She winced as pain shot relentlessly from her ankles up her slim, shapely legs, stiff and swollen after forty-eight hours on duty. Not that Matron cared, she reflected bitterly. To her, the Voluntary Aid Detachments were nothing more than glorified slave labor. Never mind that many of them, by this stage of the war, were more knowledgeable than most of the young nurses brought in fresh from training.

Resolutely, Flora switched on her flashlight and straightened the intricate uniform that enveloped her diminutive figure like a suit of starched armor. She glanced sleepily at her watch before making her way past the row of narrow beds, her rubber soles squeaking eerily on the linoleum.

She lingered, staring sadly through the shadows at the bandaged remains of a generation. Months before, boys her own age had left for the front as brave young warriors, ready to conquer the world, only to return wounded forever in heart, body and soul. Each time her eye fell on a flat sheet where a limb should have been, her throat clenched, for try as she might she was unable to shut out the smothered moans and the heartrending aura of resignation. Six months of quivering stumps, the familiar hum of agony, and dressing wounds, some so horrific death would have been preferable, should have made her immune to these sights and sounds. But they hadn’t, and probably never would. The outer control she displayed was a necessary survival tool, one that she upheld bravely, aware that a calm front helped the suffering patients. But her soul wept, unable to accept so much needless pain and mutilation.

Halfway down the ward she stopped to smooth the forehead of a sandy-haired private, relieved to find him calmer. But his limp pajama sleeve told its own tale, and she wondered for the thousandth time what it would be like if Gavin were to return like this. The thought was haunting. Again she chased away the images of his tall, handsome figure lying broken and maimed at the bottom of a trench, his bright blue eyes dulled by pain and his thick, black hair caked with blood and mud.

Shuddering, she headed toward the screens raised ominously around Jimmy McPherson, a young private brought in yesterday for whom little could be done. She slipped behind the divide and gazed unhappily into a pair of delirious eyes that glittered, bright and frantic, above fiery emaciated cheeks.

With nobody to alleviate his soft moans of agony, Flora lay the flashlight on the nightstand and realized that all she could do now was pray. Reaching out, she took the boy’s hot, dry hand in hers, begging not for his recovery, but for a quick release from this horrendous suffering.

“Allow him to go in peace, dear Lord,” she pleaded, holding her other hand close to the young man’s feverish brow.

All at once, her body became weightless, as though she were not a part of it, and a strong sensation of energy ran through her. It had occurred several times, always with those patients on the brink of death who seemed unable to let go of life. As on the other occasions, she suddenly felt an invisible presence. The heat from Jimmy’s brow abated, his eyes cleared and his chapped lips moved. Flora leaned closer, desperate to catch his last, whispered words.

“Tell Mother I planted the daffodils for her. Tell her…” But the rest was lost as his eyes closed and life ebbed gently away, and Flora watched in motionless awe as two hazy shadows appeared above the bed. She saw him rise out of his body and walk away between them.

Slowly, as the dawn crept stealthily through the Victorian windows, the image faded and she became aware that her fingers still clasped the stiffening hand of the figure in the bed. Gently, she folded his hands over his chest and, with a final look at his expressionless countenance, devoid now of suffering, she pulled the sheet up over him. A rush of exhaustion followed and she clutched the railing of the cot as everything went black.

Gradually she recovered her balance. The ward and its gloomy monotony came back into focus, and she stared as though seeing it for the first time. All at once, the endless rain battering the rattling panes of the old windows, the groans, the sickening scent of death and despondency, swooped down on her like a terrifying specter, and to her horror she feared she could not go on. Shame followed her initial panic as she faced her own inadequacy. Suddenly she wanted to run, escape from this dismal drudgery.

“Nurse?” A harsh call from the door made Flora snap to and hurry to face the starched, disapproving matron. It was bad enough being surrounded by suffering, but the matron’s constant censure made matters worse. She never missed a chance to slip in a snide remark about the privileged few, coupled with derogatory reflections on Flora’s small frame. Added to that were the woman’s disdainful looks. Often Flora wished she were plain and invisible, ashamed of her trim figure, her misty gray eyes, delicate, translucent complexion and chestnut hair that the matron regarded as nothing less than the wiles of a wicked temptress.

“I was just doing the rounds, Matron,” she murmured hurriedly, afraid her expression might give her thoughts away. “I’m afraid poor Private McPherson passed away.”

“I see. I hope you filled out the chart properly, Nurse. I won’t stand for any inefficiency.” She peered ominously through a pair of thick, horn-rimmed glasses perched on the beak of her bony nose. Behind them, her small, steely eyes glinted like two metal buttons. “You can finish cleaning the floors before you go. There’s to be no slacking. And mind your posture, Nurse. I won’t have slouches on my ward.”

Mustering her dignity, Flora straightened her sore back and dragged herself to the laundry to get a mop and pail, feeling the matron’s piercing gaze boring into her back as she trundled down the corridor. She cleaned the floor with aching arms and sighed with relief when the clock finally struck seven, careful to make herself scarce before the woman found another last-minute task for her to perform.

Flora grabbed her cloak and umbrella, left the drab building and made her way through the heavy rain to a shelter on the street corner. There she waited for the tram that would take her to the end of Prince’s Street, where Murray and the car would be waiting to take her home. She leaned against the damp wall, staring at the rising mist still clinging to the flagged pavement, and glanced shamefacedly at the peeling posters with their patriotic appeals. What right had she to complain, when everyone was suffering just as she was? Still, she knew she’d reached the end of her tether and could not stand the ward or the matron’s badgering any longer.

At the sound of the tram’s approach, Flora went to the curb and waved it down. The aged conductor gave a tired smile. She sat down on the wooden bench, relieved to be off her feet, and considered her situation. As a solution presented itself, a slow smile and a tingle of excitement replaced the shame and fear. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? The Foreign Service! Perhaps it wasn’t here at home that she was needed but at the front. Perhaps there, in the midst of it all, she could be of true help, offering more than the menial tasks the matron assigned her. She steadied herself as the tram rumbled along, filled with newfound inner strength, elated despite the physical and emotional fatigue. All at once Jimmy McPherson’s passing and the strange, recurring experiences made sense.

Then she remembered Tante Constance and Uncle Hamish and her heart sank. What would they say? They were sure to protest. Technically, they could even stop her from going. Like Gavin and Angus, their sons, she had lied about her age to become a V.A.D. Still, her mind was made up. Somewhere deep within, a dogged voice summoned, as though the young private’s death had opened a window to her soul, making the months of frustration and endurance—of patiently washing slops and cleaning bowls, rolling bandages and running endless errands—worthwhile.

She gazed out of the clammy window at the drizzling morning, wishing she were a man. Men were simply called up, and neither family nor personal commitment mattered before service to king and country. But for women it was different. The older generation, having so willingly given up their sons, husbands and brothers, considered it the duty of a young woman to attend to them. An ailing parent was enough to call a V.A.D. back from the front, leaving her no choice but to return, wretchedly divided between duty to her family and her country.

Flora leaned forward, pulling her cape closer, anxiously imagining all the arguments her aunt and uncle were sure to put forward. But the more she thought, the more prepared she became to do battle if necessary. No matter how exhausting she found the Foreign Service, it couldn’t possibly be worse than the tedious, unrewarding pattern of the present, where the only highlight lay in Angus’s sporadic letters, carrying brief news of Gavin.

With her six-month trial period complete, Flora was eligible to apply overseas. The government was appealing daily for V.A.D.s willing to go to the front. As the tram swung round the corner into Prince’s Street, a large billboard came into view, exhorting the population to trust in their country and support those brave young men and women at the front. It had to be an omen, Flora averred.

The moment she reached the car, Flora instructed the chauffeur, who was too old for the war or the coal pits, to drive straight to the inscription office. There she waited for nearly an hour in a stuffy waiting room, while an efficient middle-aged woman in uniform sat behind a large desk, writing diligently. Flora stared at the carpet’s fading gray pattern, which was probably once blue, and read the announcements pinned on the walls. She fiddled nervously with the buttons of her cloak, convincing herself she’d done right to come.

Finally the woman beckoned and Flora followed her down a colorless corridor to a door that had an opaque glass panel with RECRUITING written on it in bold, black letters. She was invited to sit down by an unusually sympathetic young matron who did not question too closely when she blushingly stated her age as nineteen. She merely filled in the blanks on the form, apparently glad that after three long years of pain, tedium and despair, some gallant souls were still ready to go to the western front. The interview went well, and by the end of half an hour she had been accepted for foreign service.

Flora dropped her bombshell at dinner that evening, a formal affair despite the lack of servants. Tante Constance gazed helplessly down the gleaming stretch of fine Georgian mahogany decked with the usual array of silver and porcelain, silently seeking her husband’s opinion in the aftermath of the announcement. Flora fidgeted under the table, about to break the silence, when Tante Constance finally spoke, her French intonation still noticeable after twenty years of living in Scotland.

“But why you, ma chérie? They have so many nurses already. The conditions…Angus writes that conditions are appalling.” She appealed once more to her husband, who continued eating the meager soup, unusually quiet. “Hamish,” she exclaimed, irritated, “did you hear what Flora is suggesting? It is absurd, ridiculous—out of the question. I don’t think she should go. You agree, of course, Hamish, yes? It is impossible to permit the child to go. She was only sixteen last week! Mon Dieu! What would your poor cousin Seaton have said if he and Jane were still alive? I’m sure they would have been opposed to their only daughter going to the war.”

“But Tante, how could they be opposed when they themselves were the first to seek danger?” Flora blurted out. “The missions in Africa were very dangerous. That’s why they were killed. For what they believed in,” she pleaded, caught between the determination to go at all cost, and the boundaries of an upbringing that placed family considerations before all else.

“That was not at all the same. There was no war at the time and they were missionaries,” Tante Constance replied with a dismissive wave of the hand.

Flora bit her tongue, knowing it was useless to point out that her father—a distant cousin of Uncle Hamish’s—and her mother had lost their lives in the midst of a tribal feud. So she remained silent, anxiously waiting for Uncle Hamish to answer. Although he ran the MacLeod coal empire like a benevolent nineteenth-century dictator, he often reacted unexpectedly. It was he, despite all Tante’s supplications, who had allowed the twins to lie about their age and enlist, saying that in their place he would have done the same. Now, seeing his gray hair and lined face, it was easy to deduce what it had cost him. There must have been days when he rued his decision, wishing only for their safe return, questioning his own sanity for having allowed them to go. But her uncle bore that, and Tante Constance’s endless reproaches, in stoic silence.

She waited with bated breath as he laid down the soupspoon and carefully dabbed his thick mustache with a white linen napkin.

“This is a sudden and serious decision, my dear Flora. Are you certain that you have reflected sufficiently upon the matter?”

“Oh, yes, Uncle Hamish, I have,” she responded, meeting his gaze full on. “I can’t bear being useless here. I have to go,” she said simply.

He looked at her hard, then nodded silently before turning to his wife. “I respect Flora’s decision, just as I respected that of our two sons,” he said, continuing before Tante Constance could protest. “There is a war on, my dear. The flower of our youth has suffered its consequences, but so it is. And although, like you, I deplore the fact of her going, I can only applaud our dear Flora for her courage. Patriotism will wear thin soon if nothing breaks,” he added, tight-lipped. “If it weren’t for the endurance of our troops on the western front, their amazing courage and sacrifice, God knows what would become of us all. The future of our nation depends on the effort and fortitude of those willing to sacrifice their personal lives for a bigger cause. Therefore, I believe that she should go if that is her wish.” He turned back to Flora and smiled, his eyes filled with melancholic admiration. “We shall miss you dearly, child, but you have my blessing.”

“But how shall we manage without her?” Tante Constance’s large form sagged before her husband’s decision.

“We shall manage, my love, just as everyone else does.”

“But it seems so unnecessary for her to join the Foreign Service. I’m sure they have enough girls out there already. The government should deal with it.”

“But Tante, if no nurses or V.A.D.s went to the front, what would happen to all the wounded? What if Gavin or Angus were hurt and there was no one to tend to them?” Flora appealed softly.

“I know, ma chérie. I…” Constance raised her hands in a Gallic gesture of defeat, lips quivering as she shook her graying head and sighed. “But you are so very young, ma petite. There is so much of life you don’t know yet, things you are not aware of, ought not be exposed to. Girls should not have to go to the front with the men. It is not at all seemly.” She gave another long sigh that expressed better than words all the pain and anxiety, the keeping-up of a brave front while praying fervently that the ominous telegram beginning with those fateful words—We sincerely regret to inform you…—would never arrive.

“It won’t be for long, Tante.” Flora reached across the table and gently touched her aunt’s trembling fingers. “I’m sure the war cannot last much longer.”

“How can we tell?” Tante Constance pressed a hankie to her eyes, trying to hold back the tears. “How do we know how much longer? They say in France that General Nivelle has all these wonderful plans, but all the while, the army is refusing to fight. My brother Eustace writes that were it not for the astute intervention of a young officer named Philippe Pétain things would be a disaster. And look at this country! Lloyd George argues with General Haig and that Robertson man, and everything remains exactly the same, more young men dead or wounded, more widows and weeping mothers. Have they no hearts?” she cried. “You are like a daughter to me, Flora dearest.” She clasped the outstretched hand. “I could not bear to lose you, too. Oh, mon Dieu, non!”

“My dearest,” Hamish said soothingly, “we must all be prepared to make the supreme sacrifice for the good of the nation. Or there will be no nation,” he added dryly.

Flora stroked Tante’s tremulous hand, wishing she could offer solace. She hated being the cause of more suffering, yet she knew she had no choice. She glanced at Uncle Hamish, struck all at once by the irony that this war that they all deplored was multiplying his fortune several times over. The need for British coal was overwhelming and Hamish’s factory could provide it. But she knew he would gladly have given every last penny to have his sons returned to him safe and sound.

That night they played cards in the drawing room as they had before the war. Little had altered at Midfield, as though defying the onslaught of change that would inevitably come. Here, a few miles south of Edinburgh, the war seemed a remote happening that had afflicted but not yet debilitated. Rationing wasn’t felt the same here; Uncle Hamish had arranged for eggs, butter and lamb to be brought from Strathaird, the estate on the Isle of Skye where the family used to spend a large portion of the summer holidays before embarking on an annual trip to Limoges. There Tante Constance’s brother, Eustace de la Vallière, and his wife, Hortense, owned la Vallière, one of the largest porcelain factories in France.

Flora gazed at the green baize of the card table and thought of Cousin Eugène, Oncle Eustace and Tante Hortense’s son, so serious, spiritual and mature despite his youth, entering the priesthood. It had been three long years since they were all together. She tried to concentrate on the game, making sure she made just enough mistakes for Uncle Hamish to believe he’d won fair and square, her lips twitching affectionately when she discarded an ace and his mustache bristled with satisfaction. He was so dear, and she so grateful that he supported her decision, despite his natural concern and what were sure to be endless recriminations from his wife.

As soon as the game was over and tea was served, Flora excused herself and slipped outside. The rain had stopped and the sky was surprisingly clear. The stars glimmered like the flickering flames in a Christmas procession seen from afar. Were these the same stars Gavin gazed at from his trench, she wondered, sitting on the damp terrace despite Tante’s admonitions about catching a chill, her knees hugged under her chin.

The pale satin of her evening gown cascaded down the stone steps like a waterfall as she searched the gleaming stars, their sparkle replaced by Gavin’s twinkling blue eyes and possessive smile. She sighed and recalled each precious moment, each tender endearment and the treasured instant when his lips had finally touched hers. Before leaving, he had raised her fingers to his lips, kissing them ever so softly before whispering the question to which he already knew the answer. She smiled and bit her lip. How could he possibly have doubted? Of course she would wait for him. A lifetime, if need be.

Yet he never wrote. Never communicated directly except for the occasional scribble at the bottom of a page, sending his love and a hug. It was always Angus, the younger twin, who kept her abreast of their life in the trenches, sharing anecdotes, some so tragic they were hard to believe, others oddly humorous despite the circumstances.

Now, at last, it was her turn to experience these things.

She rose slowly and wandered back into the house, gazing affectionately at Tante’s stiff French furniture, the paintings and the delicate porcelain on the shelves, realizing how much it all meant to her.

Midfield and Strathaird had been home to her since she was barely four, when the family had taken her in as a surrogate daughter and sister after her parents’ death. It seemed a lifetime ago. But then, so did the boys’ departure to the front.

She heaved another sigh, feeling worldly-wise and much older than her years. The last few months spent at the hospital had been a shock at first, a revelation. The prim, innocent young girl who had entered its portals with no more knowledge of male anatomy than a nun was now a different person. She smoothed the faded brocade of her favorite cushion, glad that women were taking on new functions, becoming vital to the country’s economy, and learning much about themselves and their capabilities. That was about the only positive aspect of this dreadful war. All at once she remembered Tante’s veiled remarks at dinner and grinned, wondering if her aunt had the slightest idea of the tasks Flora performed each day—washing the men, dressing their wounds, emptying their bedpans.

At the drawing-room door she paused, smiling at Millie, Gavin’s spaniel. The dog wagged her tail patiently, hoping to be allowed into the hall. “Just a minute, Millie,” she said, her eye catching a photograph in a silver frame. It had been taken at Chateau de la Vallière, her cousins’ home in Limoges, during that last, wonderful summer of 1913.

She picked up the picture, tears welling suddenly. There was dear Eugène, serene as always, and his baby sister Geneviève. René, their younger brother, was slouching behind him and sulking. Uncle Eustace, dressed in a white suit and panama hat, leaned on a walking stick behind his sister’s deck chair, while in the foreground were Gavin, Angus and herself, sitting on the grass, their arms entwined. The merry trio—or rather, Gavin and his two faithful followers. What a beautiful day it had been. They had laughed and played, oblivious of what life had in store for them. She replaced the picture with damp eyes, wondering when the friendly banter she engaged in with Gavin had transformed into an embarrassed awareness that left her dizzy, her heart racing whenever he was around. Perhaps it had been that very afternoon. But it was not until last year, when he had returned for a short week’s leave, that she knew she was in love.

She leaned against the door, staring into space, recalling that thrilling moment when he’d walked in and their eyes had met and clung. Oh, what heaven it had been. Gavin, so tall and mature in his well-worn uniform. The white and purple ribbon of his M.C., the Military Cross won for bravery at the Battle of the Somme in 1916, was worn with casual nonchalance, although he was the youngest man to have received it yet. For days they had walked, talked and laughed, each too shy or too young to make the first move, yet so aware of one another it hurt.

She wrinkled her nose and stared at the picture once more. If she’d known half of what she knew now, she’d have given herself to him without a second thought, she realized, shocked at her own depravity. But there might never be another chance, unless…perhaps she would be blessed, and one day he would be brought in to her section of the field hospital. Not with a bad wound, of course, but just enough for him not to return to the front and for her to take care of him.

Tante’s singsong voice calling from upstairs interrupted her daydreams. She let Millie into the hall, regretting now that all she’d allowed Gavin was one chaste kiss. The thought of his lips on hers made her shiver, and she ran quickly up the stairs and along the corridor to her room. If only she was at Strathaird, she wished. There she had her favorite spot, among the worn chintz cushions of the window seat in the upstairs sitting room, where she would curl up and dream, gazing out over the lawn to the cliff and the churning sea below. Oh, how she missed it. The family fondly called the room “Flora’s dreamery,” for it was there she spun her yarns, meditated, daydreamed and saw things others didn’t, and where everyone always knew they could find her.

But tonight she had to content herself with having achieved her objective. At least now she would be close to Gavin, and truly serving her country. Finally she would be a part of this war to end all wars that would mark their lives forever.




2


Arras, France 1917

“‘If you were the only girl in the world,”’ an out-of-tune voice warbled.

“Gawd, you’ve got a bloody awful voice, mate.”

“Says who?”

“Says I. We should stick you out in no-man’s-land and let Franz ’ear you. ’E’d be off ’ome in an ’eartbeat, ’e would.”

Laughter ran the length of the trench, and banter flew as the men moved, ankle-deep in mud, trying desperately to keep their spirits up while they repaired the traverses, piling sandbags near the entrance to secure it before the next rainfall. Those taking a break sat smoking wherever they could find a dry spot, wrapped in their greatcoats, exchanging jokes. Lieutenant Angus MacLeod, of the Fifty-first Scottish Highlanders, leaned over and offered his brother a light.

“Thanks.” Gavin shielded it with his palm, took a long drag and surveyed the men, wondering how long it would be before they finally made an advance into the massive defenses, through the endless stretches of mud and barbed wire that separated them from the enemy. There was something big stirring, he was certain, for powerful artillery had been moved in to back them up. He felt sure General Harper’s orders would be imminent. Smoking, Gavin silently calculated their chances of success and reckoned they were slim. The German offensive was gruesome. “I hope things will be better than at Ypres,” he murmured to himself. There, the Guards, the Fifteenth Scottish, the Sixteenth Irish and several other assault divisions had fought themselves out from August through September in what was known as the battle of the mud at Passchendaele.

“It’s one of my last, so smoke it slowly,” Angus remarked, referring to the cigarette.

Gavin grinned affectionately, watching the thin ribbon of smoke rise above the damp earth of their burrow, and listened to the sound of the enemy artillery becoming uncomfortably close, noting the occasional flash of flares. Too damn close, he realized. Eyeing Angus, he decided not to share his misgivings with his brother. Although they were fraternal twins, their personalities were as different as their looks. Angus hated it all. They never talked about the war much unless they could help it.

“God, I wish this were all over,” Angus remarked gloomily.

“I don’t know, it has its moments.” Gavin took another long drag, enjoying the scent of the Will’s tobacco, which was a dash sight better than the never-ending stench of gangrene and death. “This may be the one exciting thing that will ever happen in our lives. Once we’re home, Papa will expect us to follow in his footsteps, enter the wretched coal business and lead life exactly as he did.”

“Ha!” Angus shook his red head. “Trust you to consider this mess an adventure.”

“What makes you think life will be the same as it used to be?” Jonathan Parker, a young medical student from Cambridge, asked, swallowing tea from his tin mug. “I don’t think anything can ever be the same. For one thing, people aren’t going to be as complacent as they were. And God knows what will happen if we lose.”

“Lose, be damned,” Gavin replied. “We can’t.”

“If the doughboys don’t take a hand in it soon, we will, old chap. Look at us, for Christ’s sake! Three bloody years and we’ve only a couple of miles gained and few hundred thousand dead to show for it. That’s not counting the wounded,” Jonathan added with a bitter laugh.

“You’re right.” Angus nodded, pulled his greatcoat closer. “Who knows how long it may go on?” he added dismally.

With the sound of a courier arriving at the entrance of the trench, every head turned in unison. The men stopped smoking and those working laid down their picks and shovels, silently praying his name would be called. Letters from home were what kept a man sane. As names were called out and letters passed down the line, those who received nothing got back to work, masking their disappointment.

“Angus MacLeod.” Angus leaned forward as the letter was passed down.

“Who’s it from?” Gavin asked, stubbing out the precious cigarette casually, knowing the girls at Paris Plage could get him more.

“Flora. It’s from Flora,” Angus replied, blushing, his hands trembling as he slit open the envelope.

For a second, the sweet softness of her gray eyes and her mysterious smile replaced the mud, the wet and growing rumble of enemy fire. And for a moment, Gavin wished he’d written, but it just didn’t come naturally. He could say the words, and felt them deep inside. But write them? No. He didn’t like writing letters. He hadn’t even written that infamous “goodbye” letter, the one you left for after you were killed. Not him. Something told him it wasn’t a good omen. He shrugged, eyeing Angus impatiently as he read the letter, wishing she’d addressed it to him.

“I think you’ve got a crush on her,” he teased, dying to hear what she had to say.

“You know she only has eyes for you.” Angus scanned the lines avidly, then frowned.

“Well,” Gavin prodded, “what does she say?” Again he wished that she’d write to him. But then, she had before and he’d never taken the trouble to reply. Gavin shrugged. Flora knew he loved her. She would wait. She understood him as no one else ever could. She was his. He wished he’d kissed her again that last time they’d been together. But he couldn’t. If he had, things would have gotten out of hand. She was so young, so lovely, so innocent…Biting back his feelings, he nagged his brother again. “Well, come on. What’s she got to say for herself?”

“She’s coming out,” Angus replied in a flat voice.

“What do you mean?” Gavin’s head flew up.

“She’s asked to be posted overseas. She’s being sent here to France.” He glanced at the date of the postmark. “In fact, she’s probably here by now. This letter is more than a month old.”

“Good God. But why would she do that? There’s no reason for her to. Surely Papa could have intervened.”

“She says here that Father backed her up. She wants to do this, Gavin,” he added quietly, handing him the letter. “She’s made a choice.”

Gavin scanned the lines. Feeling powerless, he kicked a piece of stray traverse angrily, afraid for the first time. He knew how to take care of himself, damn it, but the thought of Flora in danger, without him to take care of her, had him swearing. Why hadn’t she stayed at home, where he knew she’d be safe? “You’re right about this damned war,” he exclaimed suddenly. “It’s time we got on with our lives. Do you think she’ll be posted near us?”

“She’ll probably be sent to Etaples,” Angus replied. “That’s where most of the V.A.D.s get sent when they first come out.”

“At least that’s not in the middle of the fighting. Still, I don’t like it.” Gavin looked up as the sound of shellfire intensified. He glanced at his brother, away in a world of his own, then stared back at the letter. His name had been pointedly avoided. She was angry he hadn’t written, he supposed. Well, he’d explain later, clear things up.

“Perhaps we’ll be able to see her,” Angus said dreamily.

“Maybe. If we live long enough,” Gavin answered, squinting upward.

“Oh, you will,” Angus laughed, his face alight with sudden admiration. “You’re like a cat, always falling back on your feet. We made it out of the Somme last year thanks to you.”

“Rubbish.” Gavin handed him back the letter then checked his rifle. “We all did our part. Imagine our little Flora at the front, though. It seems so strange. And I don’t like it one bit.”

“Not so little anymore, and from what I gather between the lines very much in love with you.” Angus gave him a fixed smile.

“I don’t know.” Gavin cocked his ear and tried to identify the exact direction of the increase in shellfire.

“Of course you do. You always have. You’ve only had eyes for one another for as long as I can remember,” Angus replied a touch bitterly.

Gavin gave him a surprised glance. “Jealous?”

“Of you two? Of course not.” Angus shook his head. “You’re meant for one another. I never stood a chance. She’s very fond of me. As a cousin and friend, that is.”

“Well, if anything happens to me, I suppose you’d better take care of her for me. Can’t have her going to some stranger.” Gavin spoke with a flippancy he was far from feeling, and scanned the trench once more. Deciding where to position his men, he ducked as the firing grew suddenly louder and a flare nearly grazed his head. “What in hell’s name’s going on? I know we’re in the middle of a bloody offensive, but it’s too damn close for comfort and I’ve not received any direct orders from H.Q. I hope the telephone lines aren’t down.” He raised his head aboveground.

“Don’t, you fool, you’ll get yourself killed.” Parker yanked him back.

“We need to know what’s happening.” Gavin jumped back down into the squelching mud and took charge. “Summers, stand to.” He ordered. “Marshall, keep the end bay covered.” He shouted orders as the noise increased and the men hastened as best they could, taking up their positions.

Then an eerie hum approached. Too late he realized what was about to happen. “Move,” he shouted, pushing Angus down into the mud in the split second before the explosion. Then pain tore through him. His body jerked up before it was thrown into a tangled mass of torn limbs, ripped flesh and horrifying screams.

For a while, he thought he was dead. Then, gradually, consciousness returned and he heard cries, smelled the bitter, acrid smoke. He tried to move but pain shot through his hip and thigh; he tried to open his eyes but they stung. Everything was hazy. He felt about him in a daze, all at once aware that the soft, wet substance he was touching must be flesh, and choked, as horror, gas and blood filled his lungs and he tried vainly to move.

Little by little he extracted his left hand from the sticky warmth below, gripped by nausea when he realized he was lying on Jonathan Parker’s dead body. He gasped, trying to catch his breath. Trying to think. He was alive. He had to stay alive. But where was Angus? Making a superhuman effort, he heaved the mangled pile of blood-soaked remains that lay across him, hearing the sound they made as they sank into the mud. The effort left him exhausted. But he focused now, and the rush of relief when he saw Angus staring down at him, apparently unharmed, was overwhelming. Thank God. He tried desperately to speak, but his lips wouldn’t move. To motion, but his arm wouldn’t budge.

Angus stared at him, expression detached. Gavin shouted but no sound emerged. Couldn’t Angus see him, damn it? He closed his eyes against a whiff of gas. When he was able to open them once more, Angus’s face still loomed impassively over him, an expressionless mask. Why didn’t he pull him out of here instead of just standing there? “Angus,” his mind screamed. “Help me, for Christ’s sake!”

But Angus made no gesture, no motion. Instead, he crouched beside him, wearing the cold, half-amused, disinterested gaze of a spectator. Desperately, Gavin reached his left arm toward his brother in a frantic effort, daggers searing through his hip and upper body as he grasped the gold chain and cross swinging from his twin’s neck, clutching it.

But Angus made no move and the chain gave way. Gavin reeled back, collapsing once more in the mire of blood, mud and misery. As his head sank into Jonathan Parker’s open guts and everything went black, his last conscious image was of Angus, watching calmly as he sank into oblivion.




3


Etaples, France, 1917

“Nurse, we need to vacate the facility immediately. There’s a new convoy coming in from the front lines. They’re bringing in the wounded as we speak.”

“Yes, Sister.” Flora hurried around the ward, which she and Ana, another V.A.D., ran with virtually no assistance, and helped the patients who could walk to other wards. Once they’d all been shifted to the next building, Flora hurried back to prepare beds and blankets for the new arrivals. As she tucked in the last sheet, she heard the ambulances drawing up and sighed, realizing it would be another long night. Every spare hand was needed and getting to the wounds before they festered and required amputation had become a grilling challenge.

She dumped the dirty laundry in a corner and prepared for the onslaught, forcing herself to stay calm, pushing away the fear that each new batch of arrivals brought. Inevitably she searched each incoming stretcher for his face, praying it wouldn’t be there. Flora sighed again. She’d had less news in the two months she’d been here than all the time back home.

She pulled herself together as the wounded began pouring in, and the usual frenzy of dressing wounds, injecting morphine and preparing the dying began. There were plenty of those today, she realized, horrified.

The doctor approached, face exhausted and eyes bloodshot, his white coat splattered with muted bloodstains that no amount of washing erased. He looked at the wound. “Better to put a bullet through the poor bugger,” he muttered angrily before setting to work. The priest and the chaplain stood nearby; they had long since stopped bothering about denominations, instead simply murmuring prayers in a desperate effort to bring solace to those last remaining moments, leaning close to catch final messages whispered from barely moving lips.

Flora worked nonstop. There would be countless letters to write to the soldiers’ families, she thought sadly. It was the only tribute she could pay to the young men who’d died so valiantly in her arms. At least she could give their loved ones the treasure of their last words. When there were none, she took it upon herself to invent them, sure that what mattered most was that a parent or a wife be given something to cling to.

“Pass the morphine, Nurse. I’m afraid we’ll have to amputate,” the doctor said above the moans and agitation. Flora glanced at him, his young face prematurely lined, marked by three years of battling disease, death and devastation.

She handed him the bottle as a young orderly came up to her. “Nurse, we have a bad case of shell shock. Where should we put him?”

“Oh my goodness. Is he wounded?” she asked distractedly, preparing for the operation that was about to take place.

“No.”

“Then put him in number ten and I’ll get to him whenever I can. I’m afraid I can’t do anything about it at the moment.” He nodded and left, and Flora prepared the patient for amputation, trying to overcome the nauseous smell and increasing heat in the ward. The hospital back home had seemed bad, but here life was hell. There was none of the priggish, ordered behavior of regular hospital life, with the petty rules and hierarchies of the matron. All of that was forgotten in a common effort to save as many lives as they could.

Getting to a wound in time had become an obsession, with heroes and enemy treated alike. And so it should be, Flora reflected, throwing out the slops and taking more bandages back into the ward, for how could you feel rancor toward young men as vulnerable and damaged as any of their own? It was tragic and intolerable to see a generation—whether German, British or any other—condemned to die, drowned in mud-filled trenches, buried under the rich earth of northern France that for over a thousand years had claimed her victims relentlessly. For an instant, she wondered what had happened to the Europe of before the war that all had believed would be over by the time the leaves fell, but that was more than three years old.

It took her five more hours to see all the patients, then Matron came on duty and forced her to go.

“You simply have to get a rest, Flora. You’ll be worn-out if you don’t. I’ll see you back at the hut. By the way, could you take a quick look at that shell shock case on your way out? I don’t seem to be able to get through to him at all, and you’re so good with those patients.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be back at seven.”

“Right. But you must rest, dear, or you’ll be no use to anyone.”

“I will.” Stepping over stretchers of soldiers whose wounds were less urgent, she walked down the corridor and headed for the last ward, where a gramophone with a scratchy needle played a popular tune. There, some men sat in dressing gowns, smoking and playing cards at a rickety wooden table. They called to her as she entered.

“’Ey, Nurse, ’ow ye’ doin’? Goin’ ’ome, I am. Back to Liverpool, it is.”

“Good, Berty. I’m so glad. How about you, Harry, how’s your leg?”

“Oh, fair enough. Never be much good on the football field again, but at least I’ll be able to walk, which is more than most.”

She nodded, smiling to mask her exhaustion, and looked for the patient. “Have you seen a chap sent in with shell shock?” she asked Nancy, the V.A.D. in charge.

“He’s over in the corner.” She pointed to her left. “He seems unable to speak. Perhaps you can do something with him, poor man.”

Flora glanced at a chair that faced the far corner of the crowded ward, then walked toward it, filled with sudden foreboding. Gavin’s image flashed before her and she shuddered, her misgivings increasing as she approached the chair. The young man had his back to her, his head in his hands. Mustering every last ounce of strength, she dragged herself forward, dreaming of the hut she shared with three other V.A.D.s. and her bunk, longing to crawl into bed for a few precious hours of sleep before it all began again.

She came up behind him, gently touched his shoulder.

“I’ve come to help you,” she said softly. “Will you tell me who you are?” She came around and crouched at his side, seeing nothing but a thick shock of red hair falling over the hand that supported his forehead. At the sound of her voice, he raised his head. For a moment Flora simply stared, stunned. “Angus,” she gasped in amazement. “Is it really you?” Tears burst forth as she threw her arms around the stiff, motionless figure. Then, leaning back and holding his hands, she realized that his eyes were devoid of expression. “Angus.” She shook him anxiously. “Angus, it’s me, Flo. Say something, please.” She shook him again gently. Then another thought occurred. Gavin. Where was Gavin? She glanced around, as though expecting to see him among the group of men smoking and playing cards. Then she squeezed Angus’s hands once more.

“Angus, you’re all right now. You’re with me.” His eyes flickered and her heart leaped. “Oh, Angus, darling, please. Please come back. Please tell me where Gavin is,” she whispered almost to herself.

“Dead.” The voice was flat.

She stared at him, then shook her head. “No. It can’t be. No.” She shook her head again, her hands gripping his sleeve savagely. “Not Gavin.” She began shaking, then laughed hysterically. “People like Gavin don’t get killed, they’re immortal.”

“It should have been me,” he whispered.

Alerted by the tone of Flora’s wild laughter, Nancy came hurrying toward them.

“Flora? What is the matter?”

Unable to respond, she sank to the floor, clinging to Angus’s limp hands as though she might find some part of Gavin there, refusing to let go, to believe.

It took Nancy and two other nurses to pry her away. Half carrying her to the hut, they put her to bed and forced some pills down her throat. It was only when she woke, twenty-four hours later, from the heavily drugged sleep, that the truth hit home. He was gone. Gone forever.

She stared at the pegs that sagged under the weight of various clothes, wanting to cry, but she couldn’t. She, who had shed so many tears for all the others, was incapable of weeping for the man she loved. Now that it was his turn, she was numb. She dragged herself up in the narrow cot, pulled the brown blanket up to her chin and sat shivering, trying to visualize him, but her mind was blank, as though her memory had been wiped clean as a slate. She closed her eyes tight, desperately trying to conjure up his image, recall some feature, some peculiar expression that made him who he was, but the harder she tried, the more distant he became.

Duty and training dragged her out of bed. Legs trembling, she dressed, then returned to the ward, where another convoy of badly wounded was being brought in.

“Nurse! Thank goodness you’re here. Get this patient ready for surgery.” The doctor laid a hand on her arm. “He’s going to lose both legs, I’m afraid.”

She nodded automatically, senses blunted, gazing down at the young officer about to lose his limbs. Distantly, she felt thankful that Gavin had not gone through this. Their dreams and life were over, but at least he had not suffered the indignity of surviving as half a man.

She braced herself, refusing to allow her personal loss to keep her from her duty, and made her way over to the bed where the young man lay, his head bandaged but his eyes clear blue and lucid.

“I’m sorry to have to break the news, Captain,” she began, surprised to hear that her voice sounded calm and gentle.

He smiled thinly. “You don’t need to tell me, Nurse. I’ve been here too long and seen too much not to know. Is it one or both?”

“Both, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry.”

His lips tightened and he nodded. “I’m lucky to be alive, I suppose. At least I’ll get home. Not like the other poor blighters buried out there.”

She nodded and closed her eyes a second against awful images that danced before her. Then silently she went to work, preparing him for the operation. Suddenly she remembered Angus. He would have to wait. She glanced down at her patient with an aching heart, reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“Thank you,” he whispered, eyes damp. Then with a brave smile he turned to the doctor. “Better get on with it, Doc. There’s plenty more out there waiting for you.”




4


Frieburg, Germany, 1917

“Es gibt einen der lebt noch.” From far away, Gavin heard voices but they faded again. The next time he gained consciousness he was being rattled painfully to and fro, amid the stench of blood and urine. But it was dark, he was moving and the pain in his thigh and hip were blinding. His eyes closed once more and he dreamed. Of Angus’s cold and expressionless face, waiting impassively for him to die. The dream kept repeating and repeating itself.

When he next woke, the pain was too agonizing for him to think, but he realized he was alive and being given an injection. There were more voices, a woman and a man speaking German, but he was too tired to care and drifted back into sleep.

This time he dreamed of Flora, of the rose garden at Strathaird, of a picnic in the Périgord, the delicious sensation of biting into a thick tartine, a sandwich made of pâté and spicy saucisson, smelled the sweet scent of freshly cut hay and heard the sound of laughter rippling on the breeze.

As the days went by and he regained consciousness, Gavin realized two things—that people spoke German, and that they addressed him as Angus or Kapitän. It was puzzling. But the pain was so sharp and the need to sleep so great he didn’t care. Then one day he woke up feeling hungry and, to everyone in the ward’s surprise, he sat up.

“Mein Gott, der Englander sitzt!” the matron exclaimed.

“Not Englander,” Gavin replied with a spark of his old self, “Shotten.”

“Hey, do you speak German?” a cultivated English voice coming from the next cot asked. He turned, wincing as a sharp pain shot up his leg and into his thigh.

“Only a couple of words. Did they get you, too?”

“Actually, no.” He blushed. “I’m German.”

“Oh.”

There was a moment’s silence while Gavin looked the other man over. His head was bandaged and his arm hung loosely in a sling. “How do you speak English so well?” he asked curiously, instinctively liking him, although he was the enemy.

“My mother’s English and my father is German. We’ve lived in London all my life. My father’s in banking—rather, was in banking—in the city. Then this mess came down and we had to leave. My parents and sister returned to Hanover. I got called up.”

“What a God-awful situation to be in,” Gavin replied sympathetically, feeling much more like talking than thinking.

“What happened to you?”

“A shell exploded in the trench. Lucky to be alive, I suppose. Where are we?”

“The army hospital in Frieburg.”

“Oh. That’s in the Black Forest, isn’t it?” he said, calculating approximately how far he must be from his unit. “Any news about what’s happening out there?” he asked casually, unsure how far he could trust the man. Perhaps they’d put him there on purpose, to see what they could find out.

“Not much—except the Americans have entered the war.”

“Thank God for that,” Gavin murmured, leaning back against the pillow, his eyes closing. “How did that happen? I thought Woodrow Wilson didn’t want to have much to do with us.”

“A U-boat sunk a merchant ship with two American passengers on board. I suppose it was getting too close to home.”

“Hmm. Probably. I’ll bet you lot weren’t counting on that,” he added, squinting at his neighbor, who looked pale and drawn.

“They didn’t. I think it may tip the balance,” he murmured softly.

“Damn right it will.” Gavin saw the other patients murmuring suspiciously, and turned painfully onto his other side. He looked into the cot on his left, where a ruddy blond face stared belligerently.

“Zigaretten?” he asked, keeping a wary eye on the others, trying to read their minds. The other man shook his head, eyes filled with resentment. Gavin shrugged and acted as though it was natural to be the only British officer lying among a ward of German soldiers.

“Oh well.” He smiled. “Danke, anyway. When I get some, I’ll give you one of mine.” He leaned back and took stock of the situation.

“Kapitän Angus, you must not speak so much.” A pretty, blond nurse came to his bed and patted his pillow briskly before whisking out a thermometer and popping it into his mouth, preventing him from asking why everyone thought he was Angus. Then he caught sight of the gold cross lying on the tiny nightstand, next to the bed, and everything flashed before him. Suddenly dizzy, Gavin put his head in his hands.

“Herr Kapitän? Sind sie schwach?”

“I’m all right,” he said, removing the thermometer. “But I don’t want this damn thing in my mouth.”

“Be thankful for small mercies. The other one sticks it somewhere else,” his English-speaking neighbor commented as the matron approached with a firm, brisk march.

“Is there a problem with the prisoner, Nurse?” she demanded, eyes glinting.

“No, Sister,” the nurse replied quickly, reading the thermometer and writing something on the chart.

The matron looked him over coldly. “I don’t want you causing problems in my ward,” she barked, her English guttural. “It is bad enough to have to treat you Saxon dogs. So behave yourself or I’ll have you sent to the prison camp, ill or not. It’ll be one less for our men to rid themselves of.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched off.

Gavin listened meekly, but as she marched off, he stuck his tongue out, causing the whole ward to break into laughter. She turned suspiciously, but found him lying down, eyes closed, the picture of innocence.

A minute later he opened one eye cautiously. A man wearing a dressing gown, who sat reading at the far end of the ward, came over.

“Zigarette?” he asked, offering him the pack.

“Danke.” Gavin took the cigarette warily, his eyes never leaving the German’s face. Then he heard his neighbor again.

“Jolly good show, old chap. We’re scared stiff of her. She’s the devil to deal with. That’s done more to break the ice than you’d believe.”

“Thanks.” He leaned forward and accepted a light. “Ask this chap what his name is, will you?”

“That’s Karl. I’m Franz, by the way, Lieutenant Franz von Ritter. Who are you?”

“I’m Gavin MacLeod.”

“That’s odd. For some reason, they’ve been referring to you as Angus. Something to do with a cross you had in your hand when you were brought in.”

“It belonged to my brother.” Gavin took a long drag of the cigarette, knowing he was going to have to face his memories of his twin eventually. What had Angus been thinking? God! A sudden thought crossed his brain. Could the shell have blinded him? Maybe that was it.

“Sorry to hear that.” The other man obviously assumed Angus was dead.

“That’s the way it goes,” he replied, wondering where Angus was now. Suddenly he felt ashamed of having doubted his twin. There must be some explanation for his behavior. Gavin immediately felt better, the tightness lifting from his chest. Now he must apply himself to getting out of here, he resolved. His family would be worried to death about him. He could imagine poor Flora, sick with worry at the hospital, and his mother and father back home.

By the end of the following week, he was recovering fast, and was in good enough spirits to charm the young, blond nurse, Annelise, into sneaking cigarettes and schnapps into the ward. These he distributed liberally among the men, making him the most popular patient there. The matron mumbled, disgusted about lack of loyalty in the present generation, but the men didn’t care. They were fed up with a war that never seemed to end, and Gavin had brought new life to a tedious situation. He always had a joke for Franz to translate, a word for someone who needed jollying up. Soon they were looking to him for direction.

Franz turned out to be a decent sort and they spent long hours talking about their lives in Britain before the war, and what their plans were for the future—whatever that might be. Gavin chafed at the hip, which kept him bedridden, but Franz told him not to complain. It was much better to be in the medical station than with the other prisoners. Gavin had to agree. Sitting out the rest of the war in an internment camp was not his idea of bliss.

Despite his newfound comforts and companions, every day he woke with Angus’s face as he’d last seen him—devoid of expression, cold. It haunted him and he prayed that his brother was all right. He thought of Flora and wished she’d stayed at home, where he would know she was safe. He wondered if she knew he was alive. They must know by now that he’d been taken prisoner, Gavin reasoned. After a moment, these thoughts depressed him and he got up and joined Franz and Karl, who were playing poker for cigarettes. Pulling up a chair, he prepared to join the game.

“Deal me in,” he said with an American twang that made them all laugh. He studied his cards carefully. Karl was easy to bluff. Franz played better, but Joachim, a lieutenant from Mannheim, was the best of the three. He lit a cigarette and the game progressed.

Half an hour later, the matron marched in. She pursed her lips, looked his way and announced with a triumphant smirk that a number of prisoners were to be brought in within the hour. Gavin pretended to concentrate on the game but he was excited. Perhaps he would finally learn some news. There was another fact to face, as well. Until now, he’d been comfortably letting time go by. But his duty as an officer taken prisoner was to immediately search for a route of escape. While he was healing, that hadn’t been possible. But although his thigh still ached and his hip hurt like hell when he walked, his arm was considerably better. If there were more British prisoners, then the situation might change.

He glanced at his cards, aware of the nurses hurrying through with fresh piles of blankets, followed shortly by stretchers carrying the wounded. He barely managed to control his impatience, ready to drop out of the game in his eagerness to question the newcomers. Watching as the wounded—more victims of the salient—were carried passed, Gavin realized guiltily that for the past couple of weeks he’d allowed himself to fall into the apathy of convalescence. The war seemed remote without the backdrop of artillery fire. He got up, unable to stay still, and went to the door. A particularly nasty case of gangrene reminded him of just how real the conflict still was. When a straggling group of wounded officers was directed into the ward under the matron’s vigilant eye, he moved next to them.

“Where did they get you?” he asked a pale lieutenant not much older than himself.

“In the shoulder, and a scratch on the head. It’s a bloody mess out there.”

“What regiment are you with?”

“Warwickshire. And you?”

“Fifty-first Highlanders.” Gavin smiled at Annelise, and got her to direct the lieutenant to the cot closest to his. The other man nodded and thanked him, sinking onto the bed in exhaustion.

“All hell’s broken loose. I hope this time it may get us somewhere.” He gave a tired shrug and closed his eyes.

“The Germans are as fed up as we are.”

“I’ll bet. When were you captured?”

“October.”

“You’ve heard about the French mutiny? They refuse to fight any longer, except to defend. Can’t blame them, poor chaps. Chemin des Dames was a bloodbath.”

“I don’t suppose you saw any of the Fifty-first, did you?”

“Only back at Etaples about three weeks ago. There were a couple of fellows wounded at Passchendaele—probably some of your chaps—waiting to be shipped home. The other poor buggers were waiting to die.”

“Does the name Angus MacLeod mean anything to you?” Gavin offered him a cigarette.

“Thanks.” The young man smiled his appreciation. “MacLeod. That rings a bell. Isn’t he Ghost MacLeod’s twin, the chap who braved the lines at Ypres and saved a whole battalion? That was either incredible courage or plain stupidity. He got the M.C. for it, you know. Apparently he was much younger than he made out, too. I think his twin was back at the field hospital waiting to be shipped home. He didn’t handle his brother’s death too well.”

“Death?” The lighter stopped in midair.

“I’m afraid so. There was no trace of him, poor devil. Did you know him?”

“They think I’m dead,” Gavin murmured, horrified. Wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, he sat down on the bed with a bang.

“Are you all right? Was MacLeod a friend of yours?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s just rather odd to know you’ve been given up for dead.”

“Oh God. What do you mean? You’re—”

“Yes. I’m Captain Gavin MacLeod. Angus is my brother.”

“Good Lord.” The man looked at him in sudden awe. “I’m Lieutenant Miles Conway, by the way,” he said, stretching out his hand and smiling from below the bandage. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ghost.”

“Thanks.” They shook hands and Gavin sensed an immediate bond.

Dead. They thought he was dead! Gavin assimilated this news, imagining Flora and his parents. How devastated they must all be. It was bad enough to picture them thinking him missing. But dead…The image of Angus’s impassive face flashed before him, but he refused to think of that right now. There were other priorities—such as escape—to be thought of, that took on new urgency.

“Any chance of us getting out of here?” Miles asked, voicing Gavin’s thoughts.

“I don’t know. Up until now I’ve been on my own,” he answered vaguely. “Difficult to believe one’s been given up for dead. Gives one a damn odd feeling, I must say.”

“They may know that you’re alive by now. Perhaps they’ve set the records straight.”

“I bloody well hope so,” Gavin replied, suddenly angry—at the army, at Angus for not helping him and at the damn Krauts for catching him. “Now that you’re here, perhaps we can get an escape plan going.” He rose and smiled at his new companion. “You’d better rest. By the way, my neighbor Franz is okay. Has a British mother, and lived in England all his life. He got called back here at the beginning of the war.”

Annelise approached, hustling Gavin away before attending to Lieutenant Conway. “You want to butter her up,” he said over his shoulder. “She’s a great girl.”

“Everything all right?” Franz asked him anxiously as Gavin flopped on his bed, cold sweat racking his body. He leaned back, his eyes closed, feeling nauseous. Was it possible his twin had left him to die? He squeezed his hands into tight fists, his knuckles white, seized by doubt.

That night he barely slept, tossing and turning, positive one minute that Angus had betrayed him, convinced the next that it wasn’t so. To distract himself, he set his mind on ways of escape. Glancing at Franz, peacefully asleep in the next bed with his face etched by the light of the full moon, Gavin wondered just how far the man could be trusted. He seemed to be on their side, but could he be sure?

At 3:00 a.m. in the pitch dark, he rose, stiff and restless, to smoke a cigarette.

“Wo gehen siehen?” the nurse asked peremptorily.

“Annelise?” he whispered, offering her a cigarette. She relaxed, smiled as his eyes lingered on her face and he ran his fingers though his hair. The patch that had been shaved was growing back, thick and black as ever, and she was obviously not oblivious to his Gaelic charm, whatever she might have heard about the British.

He motioned for her to go to the far end near the door, where they could sit, the flame from the match lighting her face. She was pretty enough, he considered. Full, round breasts, a trim waist, shapely hips that could only be imagined under the stiff uniform. He went suddenly hard, picturing her skin melding to his. As though reading his mind, she leaned closer. It was a risk, he realized, blood pounding. A big risk, yet an enticing one. If she so much as squeaked, they’d shoot him. But for the first time since arriving in the godforsaken hospital, he felt alive, back in the game, dodging danger.

He raised a hand to her cheek, his eyes mesmerizing. “Shön, beautiful,” he whispered, hearing the quick intake of breath and sensing no rejection when his hand dropped below the stiff edge of her collar toward her generous breast. He reached her nipple and she shuddered under the many layers of material that separated his fingers from her flesh.

It was exhilarating to peer through the shadows and know that this enemy nurse, decked out in her prim stiff uniform, was hot, wet and throbbing for him. A rush of power, followed by the primeval need to possess her, overwhelmed him, and he wondered where he could take her to satisfy the urgent, consuming need.

Pulling her close, he felt her breasts press against his chest. Then she led him by the hand, glancing about cautiously as they slipped from the ward, out into a muddied alley that separated the buildings. She pointed to a nearby hut some two hundred feet away.

Making sure the coast was clear, Gavin followed her across the alley and slipped inside the hut, closing the door hastily behind him before striking a match. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he recognized a bed and what appeared to be piles of clean laundry in the corner. He laid the matchbox on the table, fascinated by the shafts of moonlight lighting Annelise’s hair. In one swift movement he reached up, pulled the pins from the neat chignon she wore and watched the thick, silvery-blond mass fall about her shoulders. Then their bodies cleaved impatiently and they tumbled onto the tiny bed, the need for one another too acute.

He was about to undress her, but his hip brought him to a grinding halt. Swearing under his breath, he smiled apologetically, wondering what the hell to do. To his surprise, she turned her back to him and kneeled forward, leaning on the bed. Twisting her neck, she smiled invitingly. Gavin got behind her. Raising the stiff skirt above her waist, he gazed through the shadows at her pert, shapely bottom, encased in the ugly suspenders that held up thick regulation stockings.

Fumbling with excitement, he undid his pajamas, all danger forgotten as she raised her buttocks in a brazen demand for satisfaction, and slipped his fingers between her firm thighs, savoring her need, her stifled gasps, prolonging the moment for as long as he could before entering her with a swift, hard thrust. She moaned softly, writhing as he grasped her waist, and they fell into a frantic rhythm. When he came, he spewed all the pain, doubt and anger of the past months, and let out a sigh of satisfaction as he leaned against her, still feeling her throb. Then, as he opened his eyes, he heard Annelise mutter a strange name in a muffled whisper. All at once, he realized with a shock why she hadn’t wanted to look into his eyes. They were the wrong ones.

The sound of boots squelching in the mud had him extricating himself hastily. He pulled up his pajamas, while Annelise straightened her skirt and fumbled on the floor for her hairpins. Retrieving them, she gave her hair an expert twist, and he handed her the cap, laying a finger over his lips and listening carefully as the footsteps came closer. She trembled, and he slipped his arm around her as the sound grew louder. When the footsteps stopped outside the hut, she began to shake. A nurse who betrayed the fatherland would be shot, just as he would, if they were caught. Gavin felt suddenly ashamed for allowing instinct to overcome reason, annoyed that he’d put her in danger. After all, she was just a young girl, suffering the ravages of war.

All was silent now except for their heartbeats. He leaned forward against the rickety wall of the shanty, ears tuned, and peered through the darkness for another way out, reluctant to strike a match. As far as he could see, there was only the flimsy wooden door by which they had entered, and that opened onto the muddy path leading to the ward. He couldn’t risk letting her leave alone, he realized, squeezing her close. If she were caught she might scream rape to save her skin. Damn. He could tell by the sudden darkness and chill in the air that day was about to break. He was almost certain there was only one man out there. Probably the sentry, doing his last round, had stopped for a smoke. Gavin held his breath, feeling the girl’s heart beating wildly and her teeth chattering.

“Annelise, we must raus,” he whispered. “If they find us here, they will kill us.” He drew his hand across his throat, then pointed to her and at himself. She nodded tearfully and the trembling increased.

As a tiny sliver of gray light appeared, Gavin pressed his eye between the slats but could see nothing. Withdrawing, he turned again to Annelise. Then, as dawn broke, he distinguished clothing, hanging on hooks on the opposite wall and piled in a number of baskets. Looking closely, he saw they were freshly pressed German uniforms. He turned Annelise around by the shoulders and pointed silently to the baskets, indicating that he needed something to wear. She nodded, moving quickly, while Gavin picked up a heavy, unlit gas lamp from the shelf and stood with it raised behind the door, in case it opened.

Annelise rummaged through the piles, then turned, holding up a German uniform that looked about his size. He smiled and their eyes met as he laid down the lamp and took the uniform from her, putting it on over his pajamas.

“What about boots?” he whispered, pointing to his feet, clad in felt army slippers. Gavin watched in amazement as she opened a locker, where several pairs of immaculately polished boots stood in a symmetrical row. She went straight to the largest pair and handed them to him, along with some heavy, gray, knit socks. He pulled the boots on, ignoring the steady increase of pain in his hip and thigh. Finally, she handed him a cap. Gavin put it on, then grinned and raised an eyebrow. Annelise smiled despite herself, easing the tension as they tiptoed to the door. Gavin pointed to himself.

“Ich first. Count to ten minuten.” He held up all his fingers and she nodded. When she grabbed his sleeve, he saw the fear in her eyes and held her close, then dropped a hard kiss on her mouth. “It’ll be okay.” He used the universal American expression and raised a thumb. She nodded. Then he edged the door open and sent up a silent prayer that it wouldn’t creak.

Peeking through the crack, he saw the sentry’s back turned toward the telltale smoke rising above his shoulder. Gavin guessed that he was probably three-quarters of the way through his cigarette. The seconds dragged as they waited anxiously for him to finish. Other than the sentry, the coast seemed clear. All that lay between him and the field hospital was a muddied stretch of dirt.

Finally he saw the cigarette butt tip into the mud, and the sentry tramped off. With a sigh of relief, Gavin slipped outside and walked purposefully toward the ward, realizing he had no idea what rank he held. Two soldiers passed and saluted respectfully. He returned the salute, struck by the humor of it. This was easier than he’d thought. The other uniforms in the hut had set his mind working. As he walked quietly through the silent ward toward the curtain separating the officers from the men, he came to a sudden decision. Reaching Miles’s bed, he clamped a hand quickly over his mouth. Miles’s eyes darted open in horrified surprise.

“Don’t worry, it’s me,” Gavin whispered. “Just don’t squeal, that’s all.” He removed his hand and continued in an urgent whisper. “I think there may be a chance for us to escape, if we’re very quick.”

“How?” Miles asked, blinking sleepily at Gavin’s uniform. “Where on earth did you get that?”

“A couple of hundred yards to the left, outside the ward, there’s a laundry hut full of ’em. It may be our only chance. Annelise will help. She’s in there now,” he continued urgently, ignoring Miles’s raised eyebrow and amused admiration. “If anyone comes around, remember to address her as Schwester. Can you speak any German?”

“Not a bloody word.”

“Damn.” Gavin glanced over his shoulder and ducked when he saw Franz, lying in the next bed, move. He was too late, though. Franz pulled himself up.

“How the hell did you get that?” he asked, gazing at Gavin. Gavin turned quickly, gesturing for silence as Franz slipped from his bed.

Gavin and Miles eyed him warily. He could save them or sign their death warrants. As though sensing their doubt, he whispered urgently, “You can count me in. I’ve had enough of this bloody mess, too.”

“Okay. Then let’s get the hell out while we can. Franz, you’ve got your uniform. Better get it on.”

Franz returned to his bed and silently retrieved his belongings from beneath it, while Miles and Gavin made their way to the entrance of the ward, making sure no one was awake. “Make a run for it, Miles,” he said when they reached the door.

Franz joined them. “Wait. We’d better stick together. If anyone speaks to us I can talk to them and explain we’re taking Miles for questioning. Just look haughty, Gavin. You’re a high-ranking officer.”

“He’s right,” Gavin whispered. “Let’s go. First hut to your left across the stretch.”

The air was raw as they marched smartly toward the hut, the only sign of life a thin spiral of smoke from the kitchen chimney. Gavin breathed hard. There was still the risk that Annelise might have called someone. But his gut told him no, and silently they slipped inside the rickety wooden hut.

Annelise stood inside still, her eyes widening as she recognized Franz. “Was machen sie?” she whispered, horrified. “Why are you here? What is happening?” As her voice rose, Gavin clamped his hand over her mouth, then soothed her. “It’s all right. Franz, you explain.”

“We can’t.” His tone was cold and emphatic.

“Why the hell not?”

“We can’t risk it.”

“Okay, we’ll think about that in a minute.” Gavin pointed impatiently to the baskets. “You’d better change too, Franz. They’ll be on the lookout for you. As soon as the new nurse comes on, she’ll wonder where we all went.”

Miles was already climbing into a uniform, and Franz joined him, searching quickly through the piles.

“What about her?” Miles asked Gavin, looking doubtfully at Annelise as he buttoned his shirt.

“She’ll have to come with us. If they find her, they’ll kill her,” he replied, peering through the slats and missing the look the other two exchanged. “Do you know the layout of this place, Franz?” he asked.

“Not really. But Annelise probably does.” He turned and questioned her quickly in German. “Good. She knows where the Officers’ Mess is. We must get hold of a car. You’re a Haupt Kommandant, Gavin, so you can requisition whatever you like,” he added with a touch of humor.

“If we head toward the British lines we’ll be shot at,” Miles mused as he straightened his jacket.

“The Swiss border’s probably the best bet,” Gavin agreed, dropping a quick kiss on Annelise’s forehead.

“No. Too risky,” Franz countered. “But perhaps we can reach a place my parents own in the Black Forest, not far from here.”

“We can think of that later. For now, let’s just get out of here. Franz, explain to Annelise while I see if the coast is clear.” Gavin turned her around and kissed her again. “It’s okay,” he reassured her, pointing to Franz. “He will tell you what to do.” She nodded fearfully and he smiled at her. Then, going to the door, he edged it open just a fraction. It was raining and would get worse, if the dark gray clouds forming overhead were any indication. He glanced back. “This is it. Good luck!”

Gavin strode firmly ahead, the others following. Together they marched purposefully across the muddied road toward the main section of the barracks, Franz and Gavin in the lead and Miles and Annelise following slightly behind. They headed directly to where she had told them the cars were kept.

“Okay, this is it. It’s up to Franz now,” Gavin said, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as they approached the building, a large whitewashed farmhouse with a stable attached. “You stay here with Annelise, Miles. Franz and I’ll go inside. Look as if you’re flirting. Give her a cigarette.”

Miles nodded silently and took the cigarette from Gavin, offering one to Annelise. As he held her trembling fingers to light it, Miles exchanged a quick look with Franz before the two men left.

“Show authority, but don’t speak, even if they address you,” Franz whispered to Gavin as they marched up the stairs to the building.

It was barely light as they entered the office. A subordinate stood up from behind a desk, sleepily saluting. Franz took command, ordered a car—the best possible vehicle. It was to be handed over to the Haupt Kommandant immediately.

“But the orders, sir?” The young man hesitated.

“What orders, you idiot,” Franz barked. “Can’t you hear me, Dumkopf? These are your orders.”

Excusing himself profusely, the young corporal blushingly preceded them out of the house and ran to crank up the car. Gavin stood by nervously. Franz opened the back door ceremoniously for Gavin, then got in next to him. Tension was rife as two soldiers passed, eyeing them curiously, but they continued on their way after a prompt salute.

“Where the hell are Miles and Annelise?” Gavin hissed anxiously as the seconds ticked. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Miles climbed behind the wheel.

“Where’s Annelise?” Gavin asked, frowning and twisting his neck to see where she might be. Miles didn’t answer. Instead, he started the car and began to drive, picking up speed as they moved toward the entrance.

“Don’t look at the sentries. Just look straight ahead,” Franz murmured. But the guards merely saluted smartly and the car passed unimpeded. The three men breathed a little easier.

“Where is Annelise? Why didn’t she come?” Gavin shouted once they were on the road. “We can’t just leave her there, for Christ’s sake. What happened, Miles?”

“I killed her. I’m sorry, Gavin, but I had to. She was too much of a liability. She could have blown the whole operation.”

“You what?” The blood drained from his face.

“I’m sorry.”

“You bastard. How could you?” Helpless anger seethed through Gavin. Franz held him back as he lunged at Miles across the car seat.

“Control yourself, damn it. It’s awful, but he did the right thing.”

“How could you? She was my responsibility. I got her into this. Oh God.”

He sat trembling, horror and rage battling as he tried to reason, to remain in control. No liabilities. He could hear the sergeant at the training center repeating the same thing over and over. No feelings, no pity, no risk. But this was Annelise, a woman he’d made love to only a few hours before, a woman he’d brought this upon. It was his fault she was dead.

All at once he was tempted to look back, to jump out of the car, as though by doing so he could make her materialize through the rain, the trees speeding past.

Exercising every ounce of self-control, he stayed silent, dealing with the shock. The pain in his thigh increased, like sharp dagger thrusts.

“I’m sorry, Gavin,” Miles repeated, his voice icy, and for a second, as the car swerved onto a road that led to the forest, Gavin wanted to kill them both.

But a decision on their final destination had to be reached, and there was no time to grieve. Miles suggested the Swiss border again.

“It’s too obvious,” Franz replied, shaking his head. “We’ve only got a head start of a couple of hours before they’ll be on to us. I reckon we should go to Schloss Annenberg. It’s a small hunting lodge that belongs to my father’s family. At the beginning of the war we stocked it with provisions in case we needed to hide. My father was worried that my mother, being British, and my sister, might find themselves in danger. Nobody has lived there for years. It’s tucked away in the depths of the woods.”

“Where the hell are we, anyway?” Gavin asked, trying to escape the images of Annelise’s body sinking to the ground.

“Slightly south of Frieburg, I reckon.” Miles leaned across the dashboard and opened the glove box of the Daimler. Sure enough, a map lay neatly folded inside. He handed it to Franz, who opened it and began studying it. “We’ll have to head farther south. Now we’re going east. At the next crossroads, we’d better make a right.”

“How do you think your parents are going to take the news that you’ve deserted?” Gavin asked evenly, directing his anger at Franz.

“It will be a blight on the German half of the family, but I know my parents will understand. They know I feel more British than German and would rather be fighting for the other side.”

“Isn’t home the first place the Germans will look for you?” he asked scathingly.

“Perhaps they’ll go to the house in Hanover, but not to Annenburg. They will advise my family. The news will travel fast. But they’ll imagine we’re trying to reach the British lines or the border. And right now they’re too busy to spend much time looking for deserters. It’s my father I’m sorry about.” Franz looked away, his face bleak. “But I don’t believe in this war, and neither does he. I don’t believe in what Germany’s doing, in all the massacres that have taken place, and now this expansionist vision of Ludendorff’s. He thinks he can reinstate German culture in the Baltic states and Russia, and I don’t want to be a part of any of it. My sister and I were raised in London and I’ve always considered myself British. I can’t change that now.”

“Why didn’t you fight with us, then?” Gavin challenged, noticing that the forest had thickened and the road narrowed.

“The ironic part is that, if I’d offered my services to the British, they would merely have taken me for a spy, and I’d have spent the rest of the war rotting in a damn prison camp.” Franz sighed. “Of course, you chaps will want to get back as quickly as you can.” Turning, he glanced at Gavin as the car rattled over a particularly bumpy stretch of road. His eyes narrowed. “Your leg is hurting, isn’t it? You can’t go anywhere until you get well, or you’ll be caught immediately and expose the lot of us.”

“Maybe you should finish me off, like Annelise. After all, I’m a liability.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miles snapped savagely as they began climbing a small road that wound its way farther into the forest, now a dense mix of dark, heavy branches.

He peered through the windshield at the drizzling rain that was making progress increasingly difficult. Gavin tried to change positions as the pain in his thigh grew more excruciating.

Just as they reached the top of the hill, the car jolted to a sudden stop, the bonnet tipped forward and the front wheels sank deep into a rut.

“Bloody hell,” Miles swore. Trying to rev up the engine, he succeeded only in producing a screeching of tires as they rotated in the mud.

“What rotten luck,” Franz exclaimed. “We’re not far from Schloss Annenberg now, only about twelve kilometers.”

Miles tried again, then threw up his hands, irritated. “It’s no use. I’m just making matters worse.”

A few straggling houses, their pointed roofs peering out from above the trees, formed a hamlet bordering the roadside about a kilometer down the road. “Do you think we should try and get help?” he asked Franz uneasily. “God knows what will happen if we’re found here by the wrong people.”

“We have to be very careful,” Franz replied, jumping out and avoiding the worst of the sludge. “It’s just near enough to Schloss Annenberg for someone to remember me, although I haven’t been here in years, so it’s doubtful. But you never know, and people can be very treacherous in a war. We cannot trust anyone to protect us.” He glanced at the cottages. “We can’t risk them seeing you wounded, Gavin. We’re too far from the front and your rank is too high for anyone to believe that you would not have been immediately transported to a field hospital. We must hide you.” He glanced at the forest, frowning.

Miles gave the engine a last try, then admitted defeat. “I think the village is our only chance.”

“Franz, you’re right.” Gavin gritted his teeth. “The blood on my uniform will make them suspicious.” He was feeling faint and wondered how long he could hold out. “I’d better get away from the middle of the road.” He glanced at the forest on either side of them “I’ll get into the forest and you two go find help together.” He began heaving himself out of the vehicle while Franz steadied him.

“Think you can manage?”

“Of course.” Gavin tried his best to walk straight. “I’ll make it. It’s not far. Now get going. And if for some reason you can’t make it back…well, for God’s sake, just go.”

Miles handed him a knife. “Better have this—just in case.”

“You might need it yourself.” Gavin gazed at it in horror, his stomach lurching at the sight of the tiny red specks of blood, still fresh on the flashing blade. He thought of Annelise’s blue eyes and silver-blond hair, and anger returned in a rush. But he was too weak to do more than hope he’d make it to the trees.

Reluctantly, he took the knife and pocketed it. “Good luck.”

Franz slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and took out a handkerchief, which he handed to Gavin. “I’ve had this since the beginning of the war. My mother embroidered it for me right before I came out, and it’s brought me luck. If, for some reason, we get separated, you can always try and reach my parents’ home in Hanover.” He quickly wrote down the address. “Give the hankie to my mother and tell her I said to hug Bubbles for me. She’ll understand. Don’t argue, we haven’t time. Just take it.” He thrust the address and the white linen handkerchief into Gavin’s hand. Their eyes met, then Franz turned and he and Miles trudged off, squelching through the ankle-deep mud toward the hamlet.

Gavin glanced at the initials exquisitely embroidered by a loving hand and pocketed the handkerchief, glancing at the backs of his two companions with mixed feelings. Dragging his leg he limped determinedly toward the trees, each agonizing step an effort. Taking deep breaths, he forced himself forward, determined to reach seclusion before any vehicles appeared. It took him awhile—he didn’t know precisely how long, for he’d lost track of time—to reach the edge of the forest, where he collapsed in a cold sweat beneath the shadowy safety of the fir trees. He stopped and sat, breathless, before pushing farther, making sure he was well hidden before sinking among the pine needles, exhausted but thankful for the branches sheltering him partially from the rain. He huddled painfully against a knotted trunk, barely conscious, and pulled the thick coat Annelise had handed him with the uniform closer, his delirious mind haunted by her image.

He slept, woke, slept again. When he regained consciousness, it was dark. He could feel his aching body, racked by fever. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered where the others were, wondered if he was back in the truck, returning to the hospital in Frieburg, but the effort to reason was too great and he drifted off once more.




5


Etaples, France, 1917

The first few days after Angus’s arrival were grueling. Endless convoys of wounded packed the corridors, as soldiers and enemy prisoners continued to arrive, day and night. Flora functioned in a numb daze, grief and exhaustion mingling with the putrid stench of flesh that permeated the crude operating theater. Preparing the frightened patients for surgery she strove to quell the terror in the eyes of those aware of the risks they faced. Over and over again she waited for the moment when, even in her weakened state, she felt the change within that warned of the imminent delivery of a soul ready to be released.

Flora saw little of Angus during those first chaotic days. The facility was inadequately staffed, and every hand was needed. There was little hierarchy at these times, V.A.D., nurses and the doctors pooling their energies in a superhuman effort to save as many lives as they could. Occasionally, she took a few precious minutes off, to walk outside and gaze at the far-off fields behind the lines, intrigued by a solitary cottage that stood alone. Like a dollhouse, it was surrounded by a well-tended garden of pansies and columbines. Against the hollow echoes of shell fire, it made her wonder if the rest was all a dream. The tiny cottage somehow made it impossible to comprehend that only a few miles away war raged, cruel and pitiless, and that the body of the man she loved lay buried in the blood-soaked earth.

By two weeks after learning of Gavin’s death, Flora’s shock had quieted down. She was able to get some sleep at night, and visited Angus occasionally during the day. He continued to spend his days sitting, pale and silent. Distant. And she worried, knowing she must give him some affection, concerned that the shell shock was worse than she had at first believed. She’d been too caught up in her own sorrow, she realized guiltily, and with all the critical cases, there was little time allotted to those suffering from psychological wounds. There was simply no one to help them, except the chaplain in the few moments he could spare.

Walking into his ward later that day, Flora saw the hope that gleamed, for these men knew they were going home. They joked with one another, denying the past, looking toward the future—or a reprieve, at least, from the hell they had left behind in the trenches. But Angus didn’t talk; instead, he sat alone and aloof, in a world of his own.

“How are you, Angus?” she asked, touching his shoulder gently.

He looked up with a start.

“Flo.”

“It’s my tea break.” She sat opposite him on a wooden stool, smiling bravely. “Are you better?”

“Fine.” But his face was gray, eyes bleary, and he hadn’t shaved.

She glanced at him uncertainly then decided to speak anyway. “You know we can’t pretend it hasn’t happened, Angus dear. He’s gone. I know that it seems so strange…unbelievable, in fact.” She clasped her hands, forcing back the tears that threatened to burst forth whenever she mentioned Gavin’s precious name. “Sometimes I think I’m going to turn round and see him standing behind me,” she whispered, swallowing. “The odd thing is, I haven’t felt him at all. You know what I mean,” she added quickly.

“Do you think he’d come to you?” he asked, a glimmer of hope lighting his eyes.

“I don’t know. I don’t know enough about it. Just what I feel when the men are dying. The same as I used to when the animals were hurt or something bad was going to happen when we were little. Remember?”

He nodded, his eyes hollow.

They sat, absorbed in their own thoughts as a gramophone droned in the smoky air.

“I could have saved him,” Angus whispered suddenly. “I could have done something and I didn’t. Why couldn’t I move? Why was I paralyzed with fear? I’m a coward, Flo. And because of that he’s dead and I’m alive. Oh God.” He buried his head in his hands.

“You must stop, Angus. It wasn’t your fault. You aren’t to blame. Shell shock is as bad as any other wound, it just doesn’t show.” She pried his fingers from his face. “Angus, please. You can’t go through life feeling guilty for something you didn’t do. The war is to blame, not you. You must think of poor Uncle Hamish and Tante Constance.”

“It should have been me. It would have been so much better if it had.”

“Stop it. We all need you, Uncle, Tante—and me,” she pleaded, hoping she could reach through the barrier he’d erected.

Angus raised his head, and propped his chin on his hand. “You know, he asked me something just…before it happened.”

“Asked you what?” She frowned, her pulse beating faster.

“We were reading your letter, talking about you—” He stopped midsentence, far away once more.

“And what did he say?” she prompted softly.

He blinked, then continued. “As I said, we were talking about you, and…well…” He stopped, focusing on her. “He said that if anything happened to him, I should marry you,” he blurted out, closing his eyes.

Flora sat up with a start. “Marry me? But why would he say that?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged and glanced toward the men playing cards in their worn, striped dressing gowns and carpet slippers, smoke and two flies swirling around the lightbulb above them. “I know he wanted to marry you himself. He loved you, you know.”

“I’ll always love him.” She swallowed, clasping and un-clasping her hands, and realized she’d referred to him in the present tense. “It wouldn’t be fair if I married you or anybody else.”

“Yes, it would. I don’t care. I know I’m more like a brother to you, Flo, but at least we’d have each other. We could share what’s left of him.” His eyes became suddenly brighter.

“We’ll talk about it once you’re better. You’re in shock just now. We’ll see later. Try and rest.” She got up quickly, the gleam in his eyes making her uncomfortable. “I have to get back to the ward, but I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“All right. You really will come, won’t you?”

“Of course.” She hesitated before speaking. “Are you sure that was what he meant?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Yes. He didn’t want you to…belong to anyone else.” He glanced away, cheeks flushed, and Flora felt her own face burning. She had never talked about that, even with Gavin.

“I—I have to run. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She turned and almost ran from the ward. The thought of giving herself to anyone but Gavin was unbearable.

That afternoon and evening she worked herself into a stupor. It was only late that night when she lay in the dark, curled under her army blanket, that she allowed Angus’s words to surface once more. Tears for all that should have been and now would never be, for shattered dreams and cherished hopes buried, soaked her pillow.

Still, as days passed, she thought more and more about what Angus had said about facing the future together. In some ways, it made sense. It wasn’t only Gavin who had died. There were so many others, friends and relations, of their generation. Perhaps the only way to survive in the new world that would emerge after the war was by sticking together through thick and thin. Before leaving her quarters, she combed back her chestnut hair into a neat bun and placed her cap on it. But now was not the time for decisions. First, they had to win the war, only then could they try to heal the scars.

That afternoon when she stopped by for tea, Angus was waiting for her. She noticed immediately that he looked different, neat and shaved.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he proposed, sounding more like his old self.

“I’d love to. Perhaps we could wander over to that little house, the one I pointed out to you from the window.”

Flora wrapped up warm, for the day was cold and windy, and they left the ward behind, walking side by side down the main road that lead toward Etaples.

About a mile down the road, they reached the house. It was a magical oasis untouched by the world around it. Flora gazed at the whitewashed exterior, the blue shutters and the flower beds that would bloom again in spring.

“I thought about what you said,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the house, heart filled with Gavin.

“Will you marry me, Flora?” Angus half whispered the question, held out his hand, eyes filled with hope.

“I promise I’ll think about it.”

Angus clasped her hand. “Thank you, Flo. I don’t know if I could go on living without you. It’s what Gavin wanted.”

She ignored the sudden shiver that ran through her, and blotted out Gavin’s image again, as the afternoon died and they made their way slowly back to the ward.




6


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.




7


Etaples, France, 1918

The German offensive had intensified to such a degree during the past weeks that they could not help wondering how much longer the Allied forces would resist the massive drive from the east. Although no one ever expressed their doubts out loud, each day new villages and towns fell and more and more casualties poured in.

In one of the rare moments of quiet Flora was able to grab between shifts, she wrote to Angus, shipped home three months earlier.

It never stops. Day and night the wounded are pouring in and there is barely room to house them. The floors are covered with stretchers and they are treated there, for the beds are full. The operating theaters never stop and they arrive in everything from ambulances to cattle trucks. Bapaume, Beaumont Hamel and Péronne have all fallen and they are saying that the Germans are already in the suburbs of Amiens. Now there is very little left between us and the front lines…Angus dear, if I should not return…remember him for me, won’t you? I promise that if that should be the case, both he and I will be watching over you…

But the frantic activity, dealing with destroyed limbs, removing the stench-filled basins of bloodied gauze and cotton, and treating wounds, allowed her no time to think of Gavin as she prepared surgical instruments and rolled bandages in the hectic dispensary. Not even Arras or the battles of 1917 could compare to the current threat, as the enemy inched toward them, a relentless monster avidly seeking its prey.

Letters were few and far between, and one morning, when she was handed an envelope addressed to her in Angus’s neat hand, all she could do was stuff it into her pocket while she rushed through the chaotic ward to aid an agonizing patient whose blood had congealed, gluing his torn limbs to the hard canvas of the stretcher. She tried to remove it as gently as possible but finally had to cut the canvas away. The soldier’s cry of pain resounded against the ceaseless clatter of trucks, ambulances, ammunition wagons and trains filled with reinforcements, making their way to the front.

When she’d cleared the ward as best she could, she told the other nurse that she was taking quarter of an hour off before the next convoy arrived. Going to the kitchen, she grabbed a cup of strong tea and sat down, exhausted, at the makeshift table, between a harried doctor and the weary chaplain, to read her letter. Taking a sip, she skimmed the lines. All at once, her eyes filled with horror-stricken tears and her hands trembled.

“Are you all right?” the chaplain asked solicitously, laying a hand on her sleeve. “Can I help you, my dear?”

Flora put down the letter and wiped her eyes. “My Uncle Hamish died of a sudden heart attack. He was like a father to me,” she whispered.

“I’m so sorry,” he replied quietly, pressing her hand. “You look exhausted. Perhaps you should try and rest.”

“What? With this mess going on around us?” She glanced bitterly toward the corridor, where another trail of stretchers shuffled by, drenched in blood. The men didn’t even see the front-line stations anymore, but were brought straight here from the shell-blown trenches.

“Still,” the chaplain insisted, “I think you should take a break. If I remember rightly, you lost your fiancé as well.”

She nodded wearily. It all seemed unreal. Gavin gone, abandoned forever in the trenches. Uncle Hamish, dead of shock and unhappiness. Was there nothing this endless war would leave intact?

Taking the kind chaplain’s advice, she wandered aimlessly outside, seeking some solace in the fresh air, a contrast to the acrid stench of the ward. She walked over to a clump of trees and sat down, watching a lumbering horse-pulled cart bringing more injured soldiers.

She turned away, heart overflowing with sadness for Gavin and Uncle Hamish, for Angus and Tante Constance, for the life that had been theirs and that would be no more. Perhaps Angus was right after all. Perhaps the only way to survive was by creating an invincible barrier, pieced together out of painful but loving memories against which, united, they could build a future.

She gazed across the fields, her mind far away. If the war ever ended, she would go home and marry Angus. At least helping him through the ordeal of assuming a role designed for his brother, for which he had neither the nature nor the inclination, would give her life a purpose. She watched as the sun set behind the dark clouds, an ominous stretch of orange-streaked lead that seemed to foreshadow dark weeks ahead where, for the first time, the unmentioned possibility of defeat lurked.

Several days later, as she was sluicing the bedpans, Flora heard two V.A.D.s, Ana and Heather, calling her excitedly.

“Flora, come and see. They’re finally here.”

“Who?” she asked curiously, washing her chilblained hands.

“The Americans. They’re here. Come and see them,” Ana urged, and Flora followed her hastily to watch the long lines of tall, well-built, clean-cut young men marching swiftly along the road. It made her realize how tired and disheveled they must seem, after almost four long years without respite. But the sight infused her with both hope and excitement, tempered by sorrow. Gavin and the others had marched off the same way, full of strength and will…She wondered sadly how many of these young men would return, and how it must feel to come so far and fight for what must seem so alien to them. She commented on this to Ana.

“Just be happy they’re here,” Ana replied with the first grin Flora had seen in many months. “Now we stand a real chance of clobbering those bastards once and for all.”

Flora smiled and watched the First United States Army march into Etaples, filled with deep respect and gratitude toward these dignified, purposeful young men willing to endanger their lives in the name of justice, a sentiment that she was determined to remember always.

As she made her way back to the ward, she sent up an inner prayer of thanks for the hope these soldiers brought with them.




8


Pontalier, Switzerland, 1918

If the Americans were here, he was jolly well going to find them, Gavin decided, standing on the platform of the tiny station at Pontalier, a Swiss border town north of Lake Geneva. His false identity papers, which had been provided by a priest named Frère Siméon, identified him as Michel Rouget. He grimaced, not liking the idea of being named after a fish, but he knew he could pass perfectly as a young Frenchman.

It was barely six o’clock, and the station was empty, for the passengers departing to Nancy on the 6:40 had not yet arrived. He eyed the stationmaster, his crisp, blue uniform and brisk gait as pompous as his curled mustache, crossing the tracks in the chilly, damp mist, then peered through the window and shabby net curtains of the Buffet de la Gare, 2ième classe. The door swung open and a whiff of coffee and fresh croissants made his mouth water, bringing back poignant memories of Greta, who was never far from his mind.

He fingered the meager change in his pocket, wondering whether to invest in breakfast or wait till later. But there was no sign of the train, so he rose and went inside where a sleepy young waitress stood behind the counter, flicking a feather duster halfheartedly over a tightly packed row of bottles. She cheered at the sight of a young customer and laid down the feather duster, smiling.

“Is that real coffee?” Gavin asked.

“Yes. But you’d better order now, before the morning crowd comes in. After six o’clock it’s usually all gone. What’ll it be?”

“A café au lait and a croissant,” he replied, remembering the many coffees that Eugène, Angus and he had so often enjoyed in Ambazac, after an early-morning fishing expedition. It too reminded him of Greta and his hasty departure. He gazed down at the hard-boiled eggs, his mind far away as he remembered the sound of the approaching car, the two of them peering, unbelieving, from behind the heavy damask curtains; Greta’s terrified look as the vehicle finally entered the courtyard, coming to a slow stop in front of the pavilion.

“It’s an army car,” she said, voice trembling. “Oh my God. You have to flee, Gavin. You must go to the cellar immediately. God knows what will happen if they find you here.”

“That’s absurd. I can’t leave you. I won’t.”

“Wait,” she whispered, clutching his sleeve as the car door opened. “That’s General Meinz-Reutenbach, one of my father’s best friends. He tried to save poor Franz.” She turned, lips white and eyes pleading. “Darling, you must go. It’s safe for me, but not for you. If they find you here, they will be obliged to take us both prisoner. I would be hiding an enemy—they wouldn’t have a choice. Please,” she begged, seeing the other officers exiting the vehicle, stopping to admire the facade before they approached the front door. “Go.” She pushed him into the hall toward the cellar door, desperate.

“How can I leave you alone? What if you are wrong? What if—”

“Just go, Gavin, I implore you. You must,” she sobbed, her face ashen. “Take some money from the safe, as we planned, and go,” she said in a tremulous whisper, grabbing a jacket from the newel post and thrusting it at him. Gavin lingered reluctantly, part of him telling him to stay and defend her, whatever the consequences, the other knowing she was right, and that by staying he was placing them both in danger.

“But I can’t abandon you, for Christ’s sake,” he insisted as she pushed him relentlessly toward the top of the cellar stairs.

The doorbell clanged through the hall.

“Go,” she whispered, eyes wild. “I beg of you. Do it for me, darling.”

“I’ll wait in the cellar.”

“No.” She shook her head desperately.

“Greta, I won’t leave you to face this alone. I—”

“For goodness’ sake, go, or you’ll get us both killed.” She shoved him down the stairs, but he held her.

“I love you, Greta. Remember. I’ll be back, I promise.” He gave her a last tight hug. “Where will I find you?”

“My aunt’s—Louisa von Ritter in Lausanne.” She touched his cheek as the doorbell rang a second time, then tore brusquely from his hold, closing the cellar door and locking it firmly behind her. He stood, powerless, his ear glued to it in helpless frustration, hearing the voices. Calm, friendly voices. There was obvious relief in the officer’s tone. His heart beat fast as he debated what to do.

After what seemed like ages, he heard footsteps, the distant sound of shutters being closed and doors being shut. They’re closing the house, he realized, trembling. They’re taking her away. He raised his hand, about to bang the door down, but knew it was useless. The echo of the front door closing and the far-off rumble of the car’s departure left him sinking to his knees on the cellar stairs, besieged by guilt and frustration, praying she would be all right.

It was impossible to absorb that, in a few short minutes, their magical world had fallen apart, disappeared, whisked from beneath them like a tablecloth sending china flying in every direction. It seemed unbelievable that less than two hours earlier she had been lying comfortably in his arms, wondering whether or not to bake today. Now cold reality and doubt seeped through the damp stone steps. Perhaps he should have stood firm and taken her with him. They could have not answered the door, pretended no one was there, escaped together into the forest. He buried his face in his hands. Why had he allowed her to persuade him?

Because instinctively he knew she’d be safer without him. Slowly he drew his head up and rose, leaning against the wall, pulling himself together little by little. It was better for her this way. It was the right thing. He could manage on his own, but taking her with him would have made her a criminal. He reached up and tried the door one last time, knowing full well that it was locked and there was little choice left but to follow Greta’s instructions.

He felt his way numbly down the steps, lighting the small gas lamp at the bottom, his eyes seeking the safe tucked between two casks to his right. Should he take the money? Yet what choice did he have? He braced himself and, crossing the cellar, opened it as Greta had instructed him. Stuffing his pockets with French francs, German marks and British pounds, he then searched for a bag to carry some food with him. He found a sack of flour and emptied it in a corner. After giving it a good shake, he filled it with sausages, dried meat, a bottle of red wine and some cheese. At least that would keep him going for a while.

Reluctantly he picked up the loden shooting jacket Greta had thrown at him and put out the lamp, afraid it might set fire to the place. Reaching for the secret lock on the panel in the wall, he waited, his pulse racing anxiously. What if it didn’t open? He would be trapped alive in this dark, dank dungeon of a place…But it sprang open promptly and he delved into the blinding darkness.

Banging his head hard on the low ceiling, he saw stars and swore. After a while his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Thanks to Greta’s tender care, his thigh and hip were much better. Thank God, for the narrow passage was so cramped there were places he could barely crawl. But he ignored the musty, festering smell, the fleeting shadows and scuttle of vermin, determined to reach his goal.

“Voilà!” The waitress’s singsong voice brought him back to the present with a bang, and he blinked for a moment at the croissant and large, chipped cup of milky-brown coffee on the counter. Then he smiled and thanked her before dipping the tip of the flaky crescent pastry carefully into the beverage, relishing the moment.

“Are you from near here?” she asked coquettishly.

“No. I’m from Limoges. Ever been there?” He grinned, sinking his teeth into the soft, buttery texture, willing it to last, not knowing when he’d see another. The change in his pocket had dwindled to a few coins, just enough to get him to Nancy, where he hoped to meet up with a British or American convoy and rejoin his regiment.

“I’ve never been far away at all,” the girl answered wistfully. “Why aren’t you at the war?”

“I was wounded at Chemin des Dames,” he lied. “Most of us were. I’m just getting back on my feet. I’m off to join my regiment.”

“I heard the Germans are trying to get to Paris,” she said in a sober voice. “They have a terrible cannon that shoots from miles.” She shuddered, apparently glad to be many miles away.

“Well, now that the Americans are here, that should help.”

“Oh, oui! Les Américains. Aren’t they wonderful? I met one. He was so handsome.” She giggled and looked at him from under her lashes. “But he didn’t speak any French, so I couldn’t talk to him. Do you think the Allies will win the war?”

He was saved from answering by the distant chuffing of the train entering the station. “Here.” He shoved some change in her direction. “It was nice meeting you. Au revoir.”

“Au revoir, et bonne chance.” She sent him a wistful wave, wishing him good luck as he headed for the platform where the train, packed with soldiers heading north to the battlefields, wheezed to a shuddering stop. Not many passengers alighted, and before long the stationmaster announced tous les passagers à bord.

It took some time to find a seat, but finally Gavin squeezed in between a fat woman in a threadbare green coat that reeked of garlic, and a sniveling toddler who proceeded to wipe his nose on Gavin’s trouser leg. He glanced through the foggy window as the train heaved out of the station, then leaned back, his thoughts picking up where he’d left off before the croissant. Soon the monotonous rattling of the carriage sent him into a doze and his memories drifted back, into the thick of the forest.

Panting, Gavin emerged from the tunnel and sat against a tree trunk, exhausted, his hip nagging. He wiped away the grime and spiderwebs before squinting at the few thin slivers of sunlight piercing the heavy, dark fir trees. Realizing the sun was his only compass, he knew his best bet was to head south and try to reach Switzerland, which Greta had said was less than one hundred kilometers away.

They’d had no reports of the war during their blissful interlude at Schloss Annenberg, as though nothing existed but their own idyllic world. But as he began to trudge through the forest, reality loomed, stark and menacing. He was an escaped prisoner of war on enemy territory, alone in the vast ominous silence of the forest, with only a pocketful of foreign currency and odd glimpses of setting sun for company.

Night descended, damp and chilly, and he searched for a dry spot, glad of the heavy loden jacket. Alert despite his fatigue, he listened intently to the noises of the forest, the scuttling and scurrying, the distant howl of wolves and the eerie echoes, wishing for the sound of Greta humming in the kitchen, the crackle of logs in the huge fireplace, all that they’d shared over the past months.

Finally exhaustion won and he slept, waking early to the twittering chatter of birds, scampering rabbits and deer grazing peacefully in a clearing close by.

He walked on for several days, checking the sun every so often, careful to stick to the depths of the forest. Progress was difficult, and after a few days his food dwindled to a last nibble of hard sausage. Hunger twisted his gut until he thought he would die if he didn’t eat. It was then he remembered Miles’s knife, which he kept as the stark reminder of a mistake he would carry with him always. He unsheathed it, averting his gaze from the lethal blade, realizing he had little choice but to use it. Either he hunted for rabbit or deer, or he’d starve to death.

After several hours of stalking warily, he cornered an un-suspecting rabbit. Soon the smell of roasting meat sizzling over a small campfire filled the air around him.

As the days passed, the landscape changed; the trees became sparser, until open country and vineyards stretched before him. Trying to find his bearings, he was careful to stay concealed from the narrow road that wound among the orderly rows of vines standing like toy soldiers under a clear blue sky.

Three days without food and water had left him so weak he could barely stand. Still he ventured out into the open, driven by hunger and the knowledge that to survive he must move forward despite the risk. Praying the border was nearby, he crouched low among the vines, staying clear of a distant village. Then, unable to take a step farther, he collapsed onto the dank earth and slept.

When he woke, Gavin knew at once that he was not alone. He held his breath, lest the person realize he was awake. Then, to his amazement, he heard an exchange in French.

“Frère Siméon, do you think we should take him back with us?” a ponderous voice with a rolling Provençal accent asked.

He was answered in clipped, cultivated, if somewhat irritated, Parisian tones. “Of course we must take him, Frère Benedict. We can hardly leave him here.”

“Eh, non,” the other voice agreed.

Gavin risked squinting upward. His gaze met with a brown habit stretched to its limit over a large girth.

“Allons, come along, mon frère,” the Parisian voice urged. “We haven’t got all day. You take his feet and I’ll get his shoulders.”

Gavin felt Angus’s cross in his pocket and, with a quick prayer, made a snap decision. If he hadn’t been so afraid, he would have laughed at the sight of Frère Benedict’s bulbous blue eyes popping out of his face, when all at once Gavin sat up.

“Ah! I see you aren’t injured after all, mon jeune ami,” said the tall, thin friar whom he presumed was Frère Siméon.

“Non, mon Père. I was injured but I am better now.”

“He speaks French!” Frère Benedict exclaimed, leaning forward, his eyes wider than ever.

“So I gather,” Frère Siméon replied patiently. “What are you doing here?”

“Where am I? In France?”

“Unfortunately not. You are not far from the Bodensee, near the Swiss border, but still very much on German territory. Thus I recommend we do not linger. If you are indeed French, we cannot take the risk that you are found.”

“Thank you,” Gavin replied gratefully. “I am a British soldier. I escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp some time ago.” He began rising painfully.

Frère Siméon looked around quickly. “If we should encounter anyone, you must pretend to be drunk. Here, lean on me as though you are having difficulty walking.”

Gavin was so tired and weak he could barely stand. His wound had begun to ache once more and walking was difficult. Slowly they made their way through the vineyard toward a gracious manor house that stood on a slight rise, surrounded by vines. Its ancient walls were a soft vanilla yellow, and under the gabled slate roof the windows were arched and numerous. Hidden to the left stood a beautiful baroque chapel.

“Is this a monastery?” he asked.

“No. It is the estate of Baron von Lorsheid, a good Catholic, who suggested we move here when our monastery came under fire. There are several French and Italian monks among us. The locals do not bother us much. They are mostly devout, God-fearing folk.”

“And the war?” Gavin asked, leaning perilously on Frère Siméon’s shoulder. “What is happening?”

“Things are very bad. There is very little food and much talk of defeat among the Germans. I don’t think it can last much longer. There are too many dead, too many hungry, and no desire to fight. All these poor souls want is their life back.” He shook his head. “I’ve heard rumors that the Americans are repelling the enemy with the British and the French. Be careful.” Frère Siméon held Gavin’s arm tightly as he stumbled, dizzy. By the time they reached the heavy oak door of the manor, he was ready to collapse.

“Come inside, mon ami, but do not speak. And, Frère Benedict, do not mention that—What is your name?”

“Gavin, Gavin MacLeod.”

“That is no good.” Frère Siméon frowned. “Too British. We shall name you Johannes. Frère Benedict—” he turned and looked pointedly at the other monk “—this is Johannes. Will you remember that?”

“But he just said—”

“The good Lord has asked us to forget what he just said and has instructed us to call him by the name of Johannes,” he said pointedly.

Frère Benedict scratched the balding patch on the crown of his head, eyelids blinking rapidly. Then he nodded and shrugged. “Eh, bon! If it is the Lord’s wish…”

“It is,” Frère Siméon replied emphatically.

Reaching a staircase Frère Siméon turned once more. “Brother, please find him a habit. One that will fit,” he added, looking Gavin over with a smile. “You must be very tired and hungry.”

Three monks walked toward them as they reached the gallery, and Gavin stiffened warily. But Frère Siméon merely smiled and nodded. “There is nothing to be feared from our own brethren, but we must keep you hidden from the village folk. The risk of discovery is too great. For us all,” he added dryly. Gavin shivered, thinking of Franz and Greta, and the risks they had taken for his sake.

The sudden wheezing and jolting of the train as it pulled into the station at Nancy woke him, and the dreams disappeared abruptly as he joined the bustle. Leaning over, the woman seated beside him told him that Nancy was a town of anarchistes and révolutionnaires.

After some questioning, he was told the most likely spot to find an army lorry heading north was the Place Stanislas. Four hours later he was squeezed in the back of a canvas-covered truck with twenty-five French soldiers on their way to join the forces near the Sambre. There, the Americans and British armies were repelling the Germans. From the soldiers’ enthusiasm, Gavin ascertained that they considered the war would soon be over. They laughed, told raucous jokes, shared their black-tobacco cigarettes with him and passed round a bottle of cognac.

He tried to get information on the British troop movements up near Arras, but no one knew much about what the British were up to. It was les Américains they were interested in, for apparently the Germans were terrified of them. One soldier gave a dramatic description of American G.I.s bursting out of nowhere in hordes, with such enthusiasm that the mere sight of them sent the Germans into flight. There was boisterous laughter, and the bottle of cognac made the rounds again. All the while, Gavin racked his brains for the best way to get back to his battalion.

The excitement was contagious. Perhaps Angus would be there and all would be resolved. Flora and the family would finally know he was all right. The thought of Flora made him somewhat ashamed. If the truth be told, he’d barely remembered her since the months with Greta. For the first time, he wondered what he was going to do. He had asked Flora to marry him, yet he had promised Greta that he would return for her.

Conflicted, his mind was kept busy with the dilemma until the truck chuffed up a hill and came to an abrupt halt. There were exclamations, groans and expletives from the men. Gavin leaned out of the back to see what was going on. Then he heard English voices. Without a second thought he clambered over the men and jumped off the truck, heading hastily toward a group of three officers, realizing at once they were American. One turned and he grabbed the chance to speak to him.

“Excuse me, are you heading to the front?”

“Sure are,” the man replied, eyeing him curiously.

“Can I get a lift from you? I’m trying to rejoin my regiment. I’m Captain Gavin MacLeod of the Fifty-first Highlanders. I was taken prisoner and escaped.” He straightened his shoulders.

“A lift?” The man raised an eyebrow and scrutinized Gavin’s peasant clothes and unshaven chin.

“He means a ride,” his fellow officer put in with a grin. “What’s your name?”

“Captain MacLeod of the Fifty-first Highlanders.” Gavin saluted smartly, hoping they’d believe him.

“Sounds good enough to me. Jump in the truck. Say, I don’t suppose you understand this gibberish?” He nodded toward a flustered French lieutenant.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Lord be praised. Gimme a hand over here, will you?”

To everyone’s relief, Gavin began translating the conversation. The Americans were suitably impressed.

“Boy, you’re good. How did you learn Frog?” a gum-chewing soldier asked.

“My mother’s French.”

“Great. I’m Colonel Bill Donovan, First American Army, New York Sixty-ninth Regiment. We’re heading to St. Mihiel. That’s where the heat’s on right now. The Frogs need help.” He gave Gavin a speculative look. “We could use a guy like you around. I don’t suppose you’d consider joining our unit for a while before returning to your own?”

“I’d be delighted,” he replied without the slightest hesitation. They were headed in the right direction and that was all that mattered.

Jumping in the new American truck, they began the journey north. Soon Gavin was learning all that had occurred over the past months: the big German offensive, Ludendorff’s penetration of France and how Big Bertha—a gun with a range of seventy-five miles—was terrifying the shit out of Paris. In June the marines had denied the Germans access to the road to Rheims which, had it been captured, would have doubled their railway capacity. The Americans laughed and joked, telling him the already legendary story of what the marines had said when the Frogs wanted them to retreat: Retreat? Hell no, we just got here. Thanks to them, the Germans were having a hard time feeding their troops.

“Can’t fight on an empty belly,” Donovan remarked, reminding Gavin of his own hunger.

“They’re starving to death back in Germany,” he told them, recounting his exploits since he escaped from the hospital. He left out the part about Greta but mentioned the monks who had helped him get to Switzerland. “The German people and army are exhausted. Hindenburg and Ludendorff are no longer the national heroes they once were. All they want is a peace treaty. They can’t survive much longer.”

The First American Army was deployed just south of Verdun, facing the waterlogged territory of the St. Mihiel salient that had been held by the enemy since 1914. After a long ride, they reached the base and Gavin tasted his first hamburger—a mouthwatering experience. As he munched, Donovan called in a private.

“Get this man a uniform,” he instructed. “A captain’s uniform,” he added with a wink.

Gavin grinned, gripped by the dynamic American energy and the natural confidence the troops exuded, so different from the fatigued British and French armies that were stretched to the limit of endurance. He felt energized and alive, and after more French fries, ready to fight.

Later, donning the uniform they had found him, he glanced at the name on the jacket. Captain Dexter Ward, New York Sixty-ninth. He experienced a moment of hesitation, then put it on. For an instant he wondered how Ward had died, and felt strange about stepping into a dead man’s shoes. He fingered the dog tags forgotten in the pocket, wondering if he should hand them over. Then he cocked an eye at himself in the small shaving mirror, holding it back far enough to get a good look. He wondered if he should add an American twang to complete the image. It wouldn’t be too hard, accustomed as he was to chopping and changing languages with ease. All at once he slipped the dog tags on his wrist, then saluted smartly. If he was going to borrow Captain Ward’s identity, he’d better do it right.

The overwhelming need to return to his unit had diminished against the enthusiasm and excitement surrounding him; the thought of rejoining the worn-out British army and perhaps having to face the problem of Flora was simply less enticing than where he was. He felt a sudden pang of guilt as he took a last look in the mirror. Then, with a shrug, he turned on his heel. He’d get back eventually and solve his problems. Just later, rather than sooner.

The first all-American offensive began mid-September. In the first day of fighting, from behind a barrage of guns, they caught the Germans by complete surprise, capturing over thirteen thousand prisoners and four hundred guns.

Gavin was posted as liaison. His months in Germany had allowed him to pick up some of the language and, in addition to his knowledge of French, he quickly became an essential part of Donovan’s team. Translating and resolving misunderstandings, he was fascinated by how different the two cultures were and the essential diplomacy involved. He did not feel it necessary, however, to inform his American counterparts that, although the French acknowledged their moral superbe, they pettily attributed their success to German weakness rather than American efficiency.

When they learned of the Wilson peace proposals, which demanded unconditional surrender, the atmosphere became one of anticipation. Gavin loved the American spirit and was instantly at home with their frank, easygoing style, their courage and matter-of-fact manner. Each time an opportunity arose for him to return to his own sector, an excuse came up and he left it for the next time, certain there would always be another opportunity.

October brought the news they had longed to hear for so many years; the Germans had called for an armistice and desired a peace settlement. On November 11, the guns were finally silenced.

By the time Gavin’s troop reached Rheims, he and the other men were simply living in the present, and joined the frenzied reveling of the battered city, exulting in a riotous explosion of overjoyed relief. Girls flung themselves around the Americans’ necks, champagne corks flew and golden froth gushed over the pavements, bathing them in the sparkling wine. Rheims had opened her cellars and her heart, and the air was alive with joy and excitement. Bottles were shoved into their hands as the liberators drove, victorious, through the streets of the tattered city.

Soon it became impossible to drive and Gavin found himself on the sidewalk, a bottle in one hand and a pretty brunette clinging to him, her mouth avidly seeking his. He had no problem obliging. But when he raised his head and searched the milling crowd, he realized the others had been swept into the throng. The girl was dragging his hand relentlessly, thrilled he spoke French. He took a last look at the swarm then shrugged, realizing it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. He’d meet up with Donovan and the others later, when the excitement died down. Right now the feel of the girl’s body and her pliable lips were tantamount to delirium.

Throwing an arm protectively over her shoulders, he followed her into a side street, where she stopped just long enough to kiss him and press her body closer before pulling him into the shattered remains of a rooming house. His mind went blank as her body melded to his, tasting champagne and the intoxication of victory, the need to plunder all that mattered now.

As he took another swig from the bottle and followed her up the creaking stairway to the second floor, he could already picture her moving below him, barely seeing the shabby room with the paint peeling off the splintered walls as he began pulling off his jacket. Vague thoughts of Greta and Flora gave him a moment’s guilt that dwindled rapidly as the girl shooed a large tabby cat from the bed and twirled invitingly, her eyes twinkling mischievously under a mop of chestnut curls.

She unbuttoned her blouse, the material sliding off her slowly, until at last it fell to the floor. Greta and Flora were forgotten as he watched her nipples harden. He reached for her, hungry for the touch of her skin, the feel of something soft and female, the softness of her body a panacea to the death and destruction of the past months. Her hand reached for him and he pulled her toward the bed as she undressed him eagerly, her fingers running provocatively down his chest, forgetting everything but the overwhelming desire to claim the victor’s prize, to plunge deep within her and obliterate reality.

It was dark when he awoke, but the sound of celebrating continued in the streets below. He glanced at the naked girl breathing softly at his side and realized he didn’t know her name. Nor did he want to. He got up quickly and dressed, anxious to get away, to find the others and get on with his plan to send a cablegram home to his parents. It would have to wait until tomorrow, he realized, pulling on his shirt and glancing through the shattered window at the street below, where a young couple stood kissing in the glow of a remaining street lamp.

He turned and looked at the girl, still fast asleep, wondering if he should leave her money. She might be insulted. On the other hand, perhaps it was expected. In the end, he found an empty jam jar and stuffed some bills and a note inside, that read Thanks for a wonderful night. Please buy something to remember it by. Running down the rickety stairs, he avoided the weary gray-haired concierge who mumbled crossly as she swept the remnants of the previous night from the dingy hall.

As soon as he stepped into the street, he realized the city was still celebrating, drunk with relief. He stared at the crowds and wondered how he was going to find the others. He made his way down the Rue Gambetta, through the bombed buildings and debris, and headed for the Boulingrin, a restaurant he had heard Colonel Donovan say had the best French fries in town.

Arriving at the bistro, he peered through a throng of Allied uniforms and girls in their Sunday best, hanging at their heros’ necks. Determinedly, he made his way slowly but persistently to the counter, where he managed to squeeze into an empty spot. He was immediately handed a glass of champagne. He smiled his thanks to the bartender and turned, hoping to begin a conversation with the two British officers standing next to him.

But before he could speak, someone grabbed his arm. Once she had his attention, a pretty redhead with a provocative smile and ruby lips reached up and kissed him full on the mouth.

“Oy, you’re with me,” an outraged cockney voice exclaimed.

“Non!” the young woman exclaimed with a provocative pout. “Moi, I like Américains.” As she gazed up at Gavin and slipped her arms around his neck, the man’s face reddened angrily.

“Oh ye do, do ye? Let’s see how ye like this.” Gavin tried to disengage himself from the girl’s grasp, but the more he tried the more tightly she clung. As the full force of the man’s fist crashed into the right side of his face, Gavin reeled back, flying against the counter with the girl squealing on top of him. He picked himself up painfully, his right eye closing fast. Through the other he saw four marines rising, balling their fists, while two British Tommy’s prepared to back their mate. Then all hell broke loose.

One marine swung at the officer beside him, and after that it was mayhem. Chairs flew, bottles crashed, girls screamed and waiters yelled. The last thing he saw before being knocked out cold was the barman, swearing rapidly and smashing an empty champagne bottle over the head of a drunk marine.




9


Isle of Skye, Scotland, 1918

It seemed strange to be married in November, Flora reflected, looking out across the sea from her perch on the window seat where she sat curled up among the old chintz cushions. Tomorrow she and Angus would be married. It was the right thing. The only thing she could do for him, now that Gavin and Uncle Hamish were gone, for he’d never manage on his own, and Gavin would have expected it of her.

Still, it seemed unreal. But then, everything seemed unreal, even Gavin’s death. She was still not able to register that he would never again walk into a room, his eyes glinting in that unique way, inviting her on some impossible adventure. She turned and stared at the door as though he might suddenly materialize. She didn’t feel his death—she never had. Of course, hoping he might be alive was wishful thinking. She knew that. But still…Even the memorial service and the engraving on the family tombstone, next to Uncle Hamish’s name, hadn’t made it sink in.

And tomorrow she was to become Angus’s wife. She tried to suppress her sadness. Being his companion, helping him with the estate and doing her duty by him were one thing. But the other…She clasped her arms tight, pulling her heather-colored cardigan tight as a shudder went through her. How was she going to react when he…She closed her eyes and tried desperately not to think about tomorrow night or the grief of being anyone but Gavin’s.

She sighed and turned again toward the churning gray waters that smashed against the rocks below. The lump in her throat, which surfaced so often of late, returned. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Angus’s feelings. On returning from France, after learning of Uncle Hamish’s sudden death, she had agreed to be married as soon as possible, and she was determined not to spoil it for him.

It was dark and misty outside. In the distance, a small fishing vessel bobbed on the horizon, heading into port. Flora listened to the rush of the wind and the gulls squawking overhead. She heard Millie barking in the distance as she gazed across the leaden November waters, feeling as if part of her had remained in the Somme with Gavin, leaving her distant, as though in another world.

It was hard to show enthusiasm for the lovely trousseau that Tante Constance had lovingly chosen, all the while lamenting that it could not be bought in Paris. She hated standing for hours while dressmakers pinned her wedding dress and fussed. Angus had presented her with a beautiful ring that had belonged to his great-grandmother and which Tante had suggested for their engagement. When he had slipped it onto her finger, she had shuddered, forcing back the tears in an attempt to show a happy front. She was determined not to think of what might have been, but that was proving impossible. Each folded sheet, each delicately embroidered pillowcase where the wrong initials entwined were an agonizing reminder of the nights she would never spend in Gavin’s arms.

She watched the boat disappear from view with a sigh. Tante would have a list of last-minute things to go over before the formal dinner tonight. Oncle Eustace, Tante Hortense, Cousin Eugène, René and little Geneviève, who was to be a bridesmaid, had arrived earlier in the day and were resting in their apartments on the second floor.

The wedding was to be a small affair, for which she was thankful. She couldn’t have handled a huge ceremony, the pomp of a cathedral. The tiny chapel erected at Strathaird four centuries ago was beautiful, and would make the event bearable, even though the place was permeated with memories of Gavin. She smiled and a tear rolled down her cheek as she remembered eating apples with him under the altar, his foot nudging hers as he tried to make her giggle during Mass.

She wiped her face and wandered reluctantly down the wide oak staircase, wondering if she was right to be marrying one man while mourning another. Should she call the whole thing off while there was still time, she wondered, stopping on the landing and gazing up at a portrait of Struan MacLeod, Gavin’s great-grandfather. Those same twinkling eyes met hers and she swayed in sudden panic, as though he were there before her.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh! Goodness!”

Eugène, tall and slim, stood solicitously next to her in his black priest’s robes. “You gave me a fright,” she exclaimed, trying to smile.

“Je m’excuse, Flora. You seemed so…sad. Is there anything I can do?”

She thought, then smiled. “Will you take my confession?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’m not fully ordained yet. But if you wish, we can talk and I will give my vow of secrecy.”

“I would like that. Perhaps we could go for a walk after tea, or up to the old drawing room.”





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