The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [87]
That night after dinner they tuned the radio to the BBC. Grey jotted intently on a small pad of paper. His frown deepened as the broadcast faded to static. Walker turned the radio off. The click echoed in the silence.
“What did you hear?” Marta asked.
“I don’t know,” Grey said finally. “And I damn well should,” he added under his breath. He stalked out into the darkness.
Claire helped the girls get ready for bed then slipped out after Grey. The heavy summer air was still. She found him on the hilltop above the farm, leaning against the lone oak tree, his eyes on the night sky. She rested a hand on his arm. His muscles were taut beneath her grip, his jaw clenched.
“They should have told us something by now,” Grey said without looking at her. “A messenger. A broadcast. But bloody nothing.”
Claire felt the frustration, the anger in his body. She faced him, sliding her arms around his waist and pulling herself close. His heart pounded against her. Steadfast Grey was desperate. She felt a surge of dread rising in her core.
Grey looked into her eyes. “How many days can we stay here, Claire? How many more?”
She pressed herself against him and stared up into his shadowed eyes. She had to respect his need to get Walker and the girls safe, to get his job done. Her own worry for the girls grew daily. But leaving meant losing these moments, losing Grey. Was he so desperate to escape her, to return to his lover in London? She tamped down the fear that bubbled in her now. She knew better than to think of a future with Grey. She damn well knew better. She pressed her lips hard against his.
Grey responded by devouring her with hungry kisses. He pushed her against the tree. The bark bit into her back. Her skin was on fire, heat building inside her. He stared into her eyes as he entered her. She gripped his shoulders, pulling him close, letting his strength fuel her. His rhythm was the ticking of a clock against them. She concentrated on their heartbeats, their breath. It was this moment that mattered. That made her feel whole. Safe. Only this moment. Time slowed and gave way to ripples of pleasure.
A warm breeze dried the sweat on their skin as they lay cupped together in the grass, their gazes toward the faint lights from Lyons-la-forêt in the distance.
Grey brushed the hair from her face. “Claire, I . . .” His words trailed to silence. “Thank you,” he said finally. He wore the ghost of a faint smile as he covered her with his discarded shirt.
In the depths of his slate eyes she saw tenderness, gratitude and, yes, something more. A warmth spread through her chest. She felt such simple joy; she had never been so alive.
In love, a soft voice whispered in her head.
No, never that. She shoved away the thought. She was too damn smart to let a few fleeting weeks, a liaison de la guerre, make a fool of her. In truth, it would be good for all of them to escape this place, this deception. But not yet. Not tonight. She slipped the shirt from her body as she reached for Grey and let the cadence of their breath smother her worries.
They lay intertwined until the sky began to lighten around them. An intimate form of flânerie, of the body and the heart.
The moon waned to a crescent. Weeks passed, the summer heat descended and broke. The sun was bright, the sky a translucent blue. Claire and the girls spent the morning in the forest among birdsong and whispered laughter. Claire and Marta each carried a sack of berries. Anna trotted between them, her mouth stained deep purple.
Claire paused at the edge of trees behind the farmyard and motioned for silence.
“They’ve found us?” Marta whispered, reaching for Anna’s sticky hand.
The farm looked as it always did. Building listing to the side, brush overgrown. But there was a stillness in the trees. The yard was too quiet. The skin pricked on the back of Claire’s neck.
“Wait here.” Claire set down the bucket and snuck forward.
The door was closed; Claire crept around under the window, past a dented bicycle with the spokes covered in mud.