A Rose in No-Man's Land (15 page)

“Oh, God, Amy, I’m mad for you.”

He picked her up—she was such a lightweight. She linked her hands behind his neck, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist. He could feel the heat of her need, the quivering of her body, and her rapid breathing. Only fear of getting her pregnant stopped him taking her right then and there, and he dared not put himself in a position of not being in complete control.

Dragging the bedclothes back, he lowered her onto the cool, silken sheets. Fighting for control, he worked her with his fingers until she became slick and wet, ready for his invasion. He sheathed himself before sliding carefully into the garden of Eden. A paradise that had known no other man but him.

She let out a gasp of pain as, with one final thrust, he tore the veil guarding her virginity. He kissed and caressed her as they rocked together in the throes of a passion he had only dreamed of. Heaven on earth when they were together, hell when they had to part.

After hours of frantic lovemaking, he still couldn’t sleep, but while Amy slept he eased himself away so he could worship her naked beauty. She represented everything lovely and decent in a woman. Running his hands gently down her body, he couldn’t believe how quickly his manhood throbbed into life.

It would be sinful to wake her up when she slept so peacefully. She must be exhausted from working at the hospital. The pain of her patients was Amy’s pain. He did not want all of her golden youth to be drained away by the sufferings of war.
I want her to myself
. He didn’t have the right, but he wanted it anyway.

While he still had some willpower left, he slid out of bed. Padding into the bathroom, he turned the taps on over the large bath. A soak in the tub would fill in time until lunch. He would take Amy down to the dining room, and afterwards they could browse along the shopping corridor.

With the bath filled to his satisfaction, he climbed in and leaned back. One of the few things he hated about army life was the primitive bathing facilities, even behind the lines. Closing his eyes, he let the tension seep from his body by thinking of his little Julia. Being her godfather, he always bought her something from each place he visited. But he also owed Edwina a great debt. His silence repaid her for saving him from a life of abject misery. He would never have survived his tormented childhood without her. No one would ever find out what happened that terrible night when Maryanne died, as long as he gave in to Louise’s demands.

Brave, impetuous Edwina. She had fallen madly in love and eloped with Sir James Bailleau, a member of one of South Africa’s wealthiest and most aristocratic families. He would like to take Amy over to meet them sometime. She and Edwina would be soul mates. They were about the only decent women he knew.

Chapter 8

Amy blinked several times before waking up fully. She reached over to Mark’s side of the bed, wanting to touch him. He wasn’t there. Had their passion been a dream? Of course not. She wouldn’t be feeling this languid and thoroughly loved if it had been. What a luxuriously appointed room, with gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers. He meant well, wanted to please her, but a small cozy room at some intimate hotel would have been nicer, more her style.

She got out of bed and padded to the bathroom, surprisingly not the least embarrassed about being naked. He lay in the bath, and steam still rising from the water fogged up the mirror. His closed eyes showed off his long thick lashes. Strange she had never noticed them before. In repose he appeared younger, almost vulnerable.

What does the future hold for us? she wondered bleakly. Nothing. That was the brutal truth.

A spark of devilment overtook her. Dare she? With her gaze fixed on his face, she tiptoed over to the tub, swung her legs over the side and slid into the water.

“What the…” He shot up, splashing water over her. “Amy, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she teased.

“You’ll be the death of me one day.” Grinning, he pulled his legs up to give her more room.

“You have your bath hot,” she commented as they flicked water at each other.

“Mmm.” He maneuvered her until her back faced him, then, using the flat of his hand, applied soap across her shoulders and over her breasts. She had never felt anything so sensuous. Her nipples blossomed into life under his touch, and excitement swirled like maddened butterflies in the pit of her stomach.

“Oh, God, what are you doing to me? You’re a blonde-haired witch.” He nuzzled her throat. “You’ve cast a spell over me.”

“Do you want us to make love again?”

“Amy, my dearest darling, you know I do. I don’t want to ever stop making love to you.”

****

Two hours of frenzied lovemaking later, they made their way down to the dining room for dinner. Mark wore uniform and Amy had on a light gray dress. As they strolled into the dining room, at least a foot of space separated them. Women dressed in the latest fashion, ropes of pearls twisted around their necks, fingers glistening with jewels, sat at tables with their formally attired partners.

As the maitre d’ showed them to their table, someone called out to Mark, who nodded a greeting. By the tightening of his lips she knew he was annoyed at being recognized.

“Damn it, can’t a man go anywhere without running into someone he knows?”

“Don’t worry.” She went to touch his hand, but he snatched it away.

“We should have eaten in our suite.” Mark translated the French menu for her. She decided on
crème d’oignons
. How much more exotic sounding it was than plain onion soup. It tasted delicious, and she ate with enjoyment, while Mark looked as if he chewed mud.

“How are you, old man?” A blond English staff officer strolled over to them. “Ashley said he dropped you off here. Who’s this beautiful young lady?”

“Sister Amy Smithfield.” Mark spoke in clipped tones.

“Pleased to meet you, Sister.” The captain smiled. “Malcolm McArdle, at your service.”

“Hello, Captain McArdle.”

“Why don’t you come over and join my party?”

“No, thanks, we’ll be leaving soon. I have to get Sister Smithfield back to her friends.”

“Really?” Malcolm McArdle gave Mark a knowing, suggestive wink. “Enjoy your meal. The peach Melba is rather nice, Sister.”

“Thank you, I mean to try some. It’s named after an Australian opera singer.”

“So I believe. Good evening.”

As he strode off, Mark scowled. “I must have been bloody mad coming down here for dinner.”

She pushed her bowl away. “Take me back upstairs if I’m such an embarrassment to you.”

His fist clenched on the table. “You’re being idiotic.”

“Am I? ‘Sister Smithfield’ when we’re in public, indeed.” The hurt of his supercilious attitude sliced through her like a knife. “It’s ‘Amy darling’ when you want something. You’re just using me.”

“Rubbish.” He slammed the palm of his hand so hard on the table the cutlery rattled.

“Is it? You’ve made everything we’ve shared seem somehow sordid.” She couldn’t keep the tremor of betrayal out of her voice.

“I wanted this to be special for you, damn it.”

“It would be, if you didn’t keep acting like you were ashamed of me.”

“For God’s sake, it’s your reputation I’m thinking of.”

“Why bring me to the Ritz when half the English aristocracy comes here? I would have preferred something simple, but you’re the one who likes wallowing in luxury.”

“All right,” he growled. “I made a mistake. Satisfied?”

“Why don’t we leave the Ritz, go somewhere like Montmartre? The orderlies at the hospital keep talking about it.”

His lip curled with derision. “Montmartre is the haunt of painters and other dubious characters. It’s the bohemian part of Paris, quite sleazy in parts. It’s not the type of place I’d care to take someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” Her hackles rose and her temper threatened to take off.

“Don’t let’s argue.” He let out a long sigh. “I’ve never been with anyone as sweet and decent as you before. I don’t know how to treat a woman who isn’t trying to get all she can out of me.”

Amy gasped in shock at the bitterness in his voice.

“Grasping, sophisticated women with no principles—over the years I’ve turned collecting them into an art form.” His hand bunched into a fist on the table.

She wanted to unclench his fingers but dared not, in case some officer Mark knew saw them.

He shook his head as if to clear it. “What would you like for a main meal?”

“I don’t know. It’s all in French. Choose something for both of us.”

“How about stuffed pigeon?” He gave a strained smile.

“No, thanks.” She screwed up her nose.

“
Noisettes d’agneau Niçoises
?”

“What are they?” she asked dubiously.

He gave a soft laugh that did funny things to her insides. “Noisettes of lamb.”

“Now, lamb I can eat.”

“Dauphine potatoes with green vegetables?” he asked, entering into the spirit of things and trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“Sounds good.”

He laughed. “You’re a delightful companion. For you everything is fresh, exciting. It makes me feel old and jaded. We’ll go for a walk after dinner and try to find somewhere more private to stay, all right?”

“Yes, please. The Ritz isn’t for me. I want to be able to walk along the street arm in arm with you, touch your hand if I feel like it, without worrying about someone recognizing you. For the next two days I don’t want to share you with the war or anyone else,” she went on passionately. “I want you to belong to me, to be mine and only mine.”

“My beautiful girl.” He looked into her impassioned eyes, shimmering with tears. He didn’t doubt her sincerity or depth of feeling. It both excited and frightened him because he would never be able to give her what she craved. What she deserved and had every right to expect from a man—marriage and children.

A few stolen hours of passion followed by heartache and separation were all he could offer. Nowhere near enough for someone special like her. She deserved the best, and he certainly wasn’t that.
I can’t give
her up. It would kill me to lose her now.
God, did he ever rue the day he got tangled up with Maryanne and her evil, grasping family.

What sheer stupidity, bringing Amy here. He might have known he would run into people he knew. Worse still, what if they saw some officer from one of the field hospitals who might know Amy or Ella?

Amy watched the differing emotions flitting across Mark’s face.

“We’ve got now,” she whispered. “We have to make every minute count, to cram a whole lifetime into just a couple of days.”

A dinner-suited waiter came up to them, and Mark spoke in French.

“Is French the only other language you know?”

“I speak German, but not fluently.”

Amy watched a group of Australian soldiers arguing with one of the waiters.

“What a shame. They aren’t going to let them in.”

He swiveled his head around, and she watched his lips tighten.

“Those Australians have got a dreadful cheek,” complained the English major to his female companion as they passed Amy’s table. “It’s officers only, here.”

“We don’t want colonial riffraff lowering the tone of the place,” the woman replied.

Amy glared at her. “You don’t mind them fighting for you or shedding their blood.”

Mark’s hand on her arm stopped her from dashing over and confronting this horrible couple.

“Well, really, Rodney, the likes of her shouldn’t be allowed in genteel company.”

“Bitch,” Mark growled in outrage. Amy watched him savage the woman with just one look.

The arrival of their meal interrupted the impasse. Her behavior had been unladylike, but the hypocrisy of these people! Enlisted men could fight and die for the gentry but weren’t good enough to eat in the same restaurant.

After they finished eating, Amy and Mark took a stroll in the warm, pleasant evening. They set off from the Place Vendôme, and once they were away from the Ritz, Amy slipped her arm through his.

Mark explained that the River Seine flowed through Paris, dividing it in half. The left bank catered to the intellectuals, the right bank to businesses. How romantic it was with all the little bridges crisscrossing the river. In the heart of Paris, on an island in the middle of the Seine called Ile de la Cité, stood the famous church of Notre Dame.

“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered, not wanting to break the entrancing aura that enveloped the area.

“I thought a sweet romantic like you would appreciate it.” He gave her an indulgent smile. Swinging her round to face him, he kissed her slightly parted lips. “Paris is the most romantic city in the world.”

They stopped at a café overlooking the river on the left bank and enjoyed a rich hot chocolate drink.

“Delicious.” She licked her lips.

“Tastes even better in winter when it’s freezing cold. You can feel the warmth running all the way down to your toes.”

“I’d like to be here to see the snow.” She trembled. “No, I wouldn’t. How on earth will anyone survive in the trenches?”

“Shh.” He put his finger out and ran it across her lips. “No war talk. These two days belong to us.”

They strolled along wide boulevards filled with civilians and English and French soldiers. Now and again they spotted Australians in their distinctive slouch hats. Mark clasped her hand tightly to stop her rushing up to them.

They left the main thoroughfares, strolling through winding narrow streets. Here in the subdued lighting they stopped to share a kiss, or stood close together holding hands.

“I love you so much.” She rubbed her cheek against his uniform jacket.

“I love you, too, my darling. We’d better find somewhere to stay. Otherwise, it is back to the Ritz.”

After searching for about ten minutes they found the perfect place, a double-storied square-fronted house built of dark stone. It had striped awnings and window boxes overflowing with colorful flowers.

Inside the foyer, the bottom half of the walls had warm, honey-colored panels, while the top section was covered with cream wallpaper splashed with tiny pink rosebuds. Such a pretty, comfortable place, smelling of beeswax polish and lavender. Amy instantly knew it would be perfect for them.