The Moonlight Mistress. Victoria Janssen

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ have children?” Pascal asked abruptly.

      “Not a one, but I’ll pretend if necessary. You?”

      “Of course not! I am not married.”

      Lucilla laughed. Unless she had amnesia about the event, he was not married to her, but that had not stopped him from making love to her for most of the night.

      He seemed to hear her thoughts. “That was different!”

      Lucilla continued to laugh. He sounded younger with every protest. At last she said, “I’m laughing in relief, I think.”

      “We aren’t safe yet.”

      “We’ll proceed one step at a time,” she said, thinking of chemistry experiments.

      “Perhaps if we run out of petrol, we can sell the motor and buy a cart,” he said.

      “That’s a good plan.”

      “I would sell this motor now for coffee and croissants.”

      Lucilla’s stomach growled in agreement. “I forgot about that sort of fuel, too.”

      “You were fed by criminal instinct,” Pascal suggested. She glanced at him, and he was grinning. “This could be easier if you stayed in France. With me.”

      Excitement leaped in her chest. She took a deep breath. “In the middle of a war.”

      “England will soon declare war. This may have happened already. We did not see the papers, as we did not have coffee and croissants.”

       Her empty stomach fluttered, and she felt short of breath. “I have to go home. My brother, Crispin, is a reservist. He might be called up. If there’s fighting, they’ll need nurses.”

      “You could nurse for France, if you desired. Or you could work as a chemist.”

      “I’m sure France would look on that as kindly as England does,” she said. “I already don’t like being a foreigner alone among foreigners in a country at war, and that’s how it would be for me.” When he said nothing, she added, “If I don’t return now, I might not get the chance later. I don’t want to be away from my family in a crisis.”

      “They cannot endure this crisis without you?”

      “It’s not a matter of—think of sheep huddling together.”

      “You are not a sheep. Not in the least.”

      “I am also not young and idealistic, like you,” she said. “I would love to stay with you a bit longer, to see what might happen, but I can’t. I have to go home. I feel I owe a duty toward my country.” Also, she feared Pascal did not truly mean what he said, not deep in his heart. He might think he did, after their enjoyable sexual encounters, but she doubted he could have formed serious feelings for her in so short a time.

      Pascal didn’t speak for several kilometers. At last he said, “There’s a sign. Perhaps we can find coffee in that town. That would immeasurably improve the quality of this day.”

      As Lucilla had suspected, croissants were not on offer in the village of Grobschmiedensberg, but she was able to obtain sausages, cheese, fresh bread, a thermos of strong coffee, and bottled beer and lemonade for a reasonable sum. Two cans of petrol cost an exorbitant price, but she was glad for it, having no idea how much remained in the motor’s tank, and how much petrol would be required for the distance they must travel. The hazards of being an auto thief, she supposed. Three kilometers down the road, she stopped the motor and they ate ravenously, in silence.

      Lucilla offered the last of the coffee to Pascal. He shook his head, so she drank it herself and shook the drops into the road. “Will you tell me about Herr Kauz?”

      “Why do you wish to know?” Pascal looked wary. Even earlier, in the midst of danger, she hadn’t seen that expression on his face.

      “It’s a long way to the border.” He knew about her work—it was common knowledge that she experimented with pharmaceuticals to alleviate pain—but she knew little about his. Before she had to leave him, she wanted to know more of this man with whom she’d shared her body.

      Pascal leaned over the seat back, rummaged in his rucksack one-handed, and emerged with a crumpled wax-paper packet. Lucilla tidied away the remains of their breakfast and tucked the brown paper parcels in among the beer and lemonade, so the bottles wouldn’t clink together. When she settled back in her seat, Pascal pressed a small piece of chocolate between her lips.

      Sweetness blossomed on her tongue, mingling with the saltiness of his fingertips. She suckled the tip of his thumb, closed her eyes and swept out her tongue, caressing its length. He cursed softly and kissed her, crushing their hats together.

      Desire drenched her entire body. For a few moments, she didn’t care that the motor sat beside an open field, many kilometers from safety. The sun heated her blood, and Pascal’s hand on her cheek was even hotter. She dislodged his hat and grabbed the back of his head, holding him to her with a desperation she’d buried until this moment.

       He pulled his mouth away and thudded his forehead to hers. His breath puffed unsteadily against her face. “Pardon,” he said.

      “Bugger,” Lucilla said. She loosened her hands in his hair and let them drift down to his shoulders, stroking him absently as she tried to bring herself under control instead of nuzzling into his chest and tasting him with lips and tongue. She pulled away and clenched her hands in her lap, staring down at her whitened knuckles. Her desires fought her, and she had a difficult time remembering why she could not set them free. “I will miss you when this is over.”

      He reached for her again, then let his hand fall. “I will help you to get home,” he said. “I have cousins who work in Le Havre.”

      “Thank you,” she said. For the first time in years, she wanted to weep.

      “We should go,” he said.

      Lucilla started the engine and released the hand brake. She concentrated on the road for several minutes, then said, “Tell me about Herr Kauz.”

      The noise of the motor and the wind necessitated he face her as he spoke. Lucilla focused on the road ahead rather than risk glancing at him. What did she think she would see in his eyes, anyway? They were brown. That was all. Her own were the same, and just as subject to bits of blown grit. She had sand in her eyes now. Her own fault, because she had not looked for Kauz’s goggles. She blinked furiously.

      Pascal said, “Kauz first wrote to me over a year ago.”

      “Why?” She swallowed, and gave the motor a bit more petrol.

      “Long before I was born, he was married to my great-aunt.”

      In some families, like her own, a connection by marriage could be a close one, but Pascal’s tone said otherwise. Lucilla looked away from the road for a moment, at Pascal. His expression was blank. She sensed some family trouble there. “You didn’t know him well.”

      “At all,” Pascal said. “My great-aunt never returned from Germany. She died shortly СКАЧАТЬ