Enticing the Spymaster (War Girls) (8 page)

Michael wondered if she knew how imperious she sounded. Her great-uncle, the King of Belgium, couldn’t have issued a more regal order. He almost laughed at the Belgian’s expression at being ordered around by a slip of a woman he’d just met.

The man switched from German to French. “Why?”

“Because it’s necessary,” Jude replied in the same language.

“Who are you?”

“Judith Goddard.” She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“The Germans have searched this area twice in the last week. We think someone may have betrayed us.”

“In the interest of cooperation, I feel I should inform you that I speak French too,” Michael said.

“So do I,” Bert put in.

The Belgian scowled at all of them. “Tell me what’s so important that you have to cross the border quickly.”

Michael studied the big man. Though his muscled frame told Michael he worked hard daily, he spoke at least two languages fluently. “You’re no ordinary labourer.”

“My father was an educated man, but I was a blacksmith. Until the Germans arrived. When all the other blacksmiths were conscripted and put to work, I decided to take up another occupation before they could do the same to me.” He took a step towards Michael. “You look German.”

“Wearing the uniform is the easiest way to travel.”

The blacksmith looked him up and down. “I’m not just talking about your clothes. You hold yourself like a man who knows how to kill. Who’s done it before.”

“I’m a man in the service of my country same as you.”

“Your German is better than mine. Better than any Belgian’s.” His two large hands curled into fists.

Michael’s shoulder muscles tightened and he prepared to pull his revolver. “I gave you the password. I’m no threat to you and yours.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, stop posturing the both of you and help me with Bert,” Jude said. “He’s fallen unconscious.”

Michael turned to see what had happened, but movement at the edge of his vision had him twisting around...and pain exploded at the back of his head.

Chapter Ten

Michael slumped to the floor, the blacksmith standing over him.

Jude launched herself at the Belgian. “Stop! Get away from him.”

The blacksmith surprised her by stumbling back several steps.

“What have you done?” She crouched next to Michael and carefully ran her fingers over the back of his head, locating a bump, but no evidence of further injury.

“I didn’t hit him too hard.”

A groan issued from Michael’s throat. Relief robbed her arms of strength for a moment. She glanced at the blacksmith, now standing several feet away. Righteous anger renewed her strength.

“Why hit him at all? You could have killed him.”

“I was protecting you.”

That made no sense. She’d never met this man before in her life. “What,” she asked with scalpel sharp precision, “do you mean?”

The blacksmith pointed at Michael. “I don’t believe he’s on our side. His German is too good. They’ve been trying to find a way into our underground circle of people helping the British. He’s got to be a German spy.”

“No,” she ground out. “He’s a British spy.” She stabbed her index finger at her chest. “
My
spy.”

The blacksmith gaped at her for a moment. “Yours?”

“He was sent to Belgium to get me out of the country before the Germans caught me. He had to get into a German hospital. His uniform, accent and mannerisms had to be perfect.”

“But...he...” The blacksmith stopped stuttering and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. What...what can I do?”

“Help me turn him over.”

The blacksmith gently rolled Michael over. His eyes fluttered and another groan escaped.

“Damn it, this won’t do. I need him aware and able to travel. If we don’t get to the Netherlands as soon as possible...”

He didn’t say anything, just cocked his head, listening.

She rubbed her forehead. “The Germans have a new weapon. We need to warn Britain and her allies before thousands of men are horribly killed.”

“There’s no good way to die.”

“This is nothing anyone has seen before.”

“You’re trying to stop this from happening?”

“That would be impossible, but we need to give what warning we can. With some preparation...perhaps fewer men will die.”

“What do you need?”

“We need transportation to the border. The quicker the better.”

The blacksmith glanced at Michael and Bert. “They can’t travel now. I’ll take you.”

She shook her head. “I won’t leave them behind.”

The first man to answer the front door poked his head through the doorway. “Germans are headed this way. They’re searching for something.”

“Are they looking for you?”

“For Bert. We’ve no time to spare.” She wrung her hands together. “No time at all.”

“Get the smaller boat ready,” the blacksmith ordered. He turned to Jude. “I promise to keep your men as safe as I can, but you must go now before the Germans get here.”

She stared at Michael, still unconscious on the floor. “I can’t leave him.”

“If you don’t leave now, you won’t get another chance.”

Duty warred with desire. She needed to warn her father of the German plans to use their new weapon against British troops. But she needed to know Michael was safe and well too. Her hesitation may have only lasted a few seconds, but that didn’t lessen the pain it caused when she made her decision.

Duty won.

“Swear to me you’ll do what you can for them and keep them safe.”

“I swear it on my life.”

She gave him a sharp nod. If she didn’t leave now, she wouldn’t leave at all. “Where’s the boat?”

The blacksmith led her up the stairs and outside to the dock. A small boat was moored there, large enough for five or six people, with plank seats. The old man who’d answered the boathouse door stocked a coal-fired motor.

The blacksmith helped her step into it. “Don’t stop unless you have to.”

“Thank you, and please—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep them safe.”

She nodded, anxiety closing her throat.

“If you go with the current, you’re more likely to get through without being stopped.”

She nodded, but didn’t want to leave, no matter how urgent her errand. She’d never forgive herself for choosing to leave Michael and Bert behind.

Damn duty to hell.

* * *

“Come on, sir. Wake up.”

At first, the words meant little. Then someone shook him and pain shot from his head through his body.

“Enough.” He tried to make his hands push the offending fellow yelling in his ear away. “Stop.”

“Are you with me, sir?”

“With you where?” Michael opened his eyes, but the room was unfamiliar. He turned his head, wincing at the pain the movement caused and realised he was in some kind of dark room. The man next to him was dressed as a labourer with a bandage encircling his head and only one arm.

“Who...” Memory came flooding back as soon as he said the word. “Bert.”

“Do you remember where we are?”

“A boathouse?”

“Well, I guess he didn’t knock all of your brains loose.”

“I take it we’re not in any immediate danger?”

“Don’t know about that. German troops are heading this way. Our host, the one who knocked you out, just spirited your, ah, wife away, supposedly on a boat. Right now it’s you and me. But who knows when he’ll be back.”

The door opened and the blacksmith came in with a lamp in his hands.

“Speak of the devil,” Bert said.

“You’ll need to stay quiet in here for several hours. The Germans are searching every building.”

“No need. We’ll just be on our way,” Michael said with energy he didn’t feel. “Which direction did my wife go in?” He stood, but had to fight to stay upright.

“You can’t catch up to her now. She’s gone in a boat and we’ve no more to spare. The Germans are also too close.”

Michael rubbed the back of his head. “What did you hit me with?”

“My fist.”

He pressed one hand to the back of his head. “Lord save anyone who comes upon you when you’ve got a weapon in your hands. Like a shovel.”

The blacksmith grinned. “If you don’t make any noise, the Germans probably won’t find you in here. So stay quiet.”

“She’s not safe alone, you know,” Michael told him.

“She’s got nothing to fear from Belgians.” The man set a jug down on the floor and handed Michael a loaf of bread. “I must go.” He left the room.

Michael glanced at Bert. “I thought you passed out.”

“I faked it. That blacksmith is somewhat frightening when he’s angry. I thought if I played dead it might distract him, but it didn’t work the way I’d hoped.” He grinned. “She said you were
her
British spy.”

“If you so much as breathe a word—”

“You’ll kill me. Slowly. Yes, yes, can we move on from that one?”

For a moment, Michael allowed the dangerous part of him to stare back at the other British soldier, but Bert didn’t flinch.

“You’ll do.”

The sound of arguing voices filtered through the wall. It quickly became shouting. The crack of a shot echoed and something large crashed to the floor.

Michael stood, grabbed his rifle and headed for door.

“What are you doing?”

“Something stupid most likely.” He paused, listening carefully.

“Give me your pistol.”

Michael glanced back.

Bert stood a few feet away. He shrugged. “In for a penny...”

Michael pulled the pistol from its holster and handed it butt-first to the other man. “Ready?”

Bert nodded. Michael slowly opened the door. It swung inward. In front of him, a thin piece of wood covered the doorway. No, not covering it, hiding it.

The shouting continued, but sounded several feet away. He readied his rifle, put his shoulder against the wood panel and shoved. It popped out cleanly with very little noise. He grabbed it before it could fall and set it against the wall as the shouting escalated.

With the rifle braced against his shoulder, Michael walked slowly and carefully towards the noise, Bert following behind and to the right.

They were in a room with a stove and water pump, possibly a kitchen. There was a wall between them and the commotion.

He slid around the wall. Two German soldiers had weapons pointed at the blacksmith, a woman and a young man. An older man lay on the floor, unmoving, blood pooling around him.

“Halt. Lower your rifles,” Michael ordered in German.

The two soldiers in front of him froze, then began turning.

Bert cocked his pistol.

The Germans stopped, hesitating, before both bent at the knees and dropped their weapons on the floor.

Michael made eye contact with their blacksmith and nodded.

The blacksmith got up, snagged both rifles. “I’ll get some rope.” He hurried out of the room.

The woman and young man stared at the Germans then at Michael and Bert.

“Go,” Michael ordered.

They scurried out, leaving the two Germans and the dead man the only other occupants.

“What are your orders?” Michael asked.

Neither answered.

He nudged the back of one’s head with the muzzle of his rifle. “Orders.”

“Search for an escaped British soldier.”

“How many are searching?”

“Our subsection in this area.”

“Subsection?” Bert asked. It was probably the one German word he didn’t understand.

“Nine-man unit.”

“There are seven more?”

A nod.

“Check the perimeter,” Michael commanded.

“Yes, sir,” Bert replied.

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw Bert move away. His footsteps were soft, almost soundless. One of the two soldiers in front of him shifted his weight.

If he were them, he’d be looking for an opportunity to overpower his captor. “Kneel.”

After a moment’s hesitation, both men went to their knees.

“Hands behind your heads.”

They complied.

“Cross your ankles.”

After a tense second they did that too.

He moved so he could see the door and keep both men in the line of fire. The scuff of a shoe and movement in the doorway gave him a second’s warning before Bert re-entered, breathing heavy.

“Sir, you’re needed outside.” He angled his head in the direction of the dock.

“Standard orders for these two, Lieutenant.”

Bert raised a brow but didn’t comment on his conferred rank. “If they give me any trouble, kill them. Easy enough to remember, sir.”

Michael walked cautiously out the front door towards the dock and the larger of the two boats. This one had a cabin. Lamplight flickered from under the door. He reached it and rapped twice on the gangway.

The door opened and the blacksmith stepped back to let him in. Six bodies lay on the floor, all of them in German army uniforms. Blood pooled around them. Some had blood on their backs, others not.

Several other men, fishermen from the looks of their clothing, stood near the far wall, all carrying knives or tools of some sort.

“I didn’t hear any shots.”

“We didn’t want to bring anyone else around to investigate. We used what was handy.” The edge of the knife in the blacksmith’s hand glinted with something wet.

“We’re missing one.”

“One what?”

“German. There’s two in the boathouse and six out here. Their unit had nine men.” He glanced at the other Belgians. “Did you see anyone else?”

They shifted their feet and looked at each other.

“No,” one said. The others all shook their heads.

“Damn.” All it would take was one to rouse a number these men could not defend against. “Bury the bodies where they won’t be discovered.”

“There’s a cemetery close by,” the blacksmith said, exchanging his knife for a shovel. “No one will notice one or two extra graves. Since the Germans came, we’ve been burying more dead every week.”

“Good. You come with me. We’re going to try to find our missing German.”

The blacksmith opened the door and stepped out with Michael right behind him.

“Halt!” The voice was harsh, angry and anxious.

The blacksmith stopped and put his hands in the air.

“Murdering swine!” The click of a pistol being cocked echoed oddly loud.

Michael didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t going to lose a man as brave and resourceful as this blacksmith to a single German private stupid enough to challenge two men alone.

He launched himself forward, knocking the blacksmith down, and brought his rifle up to fire. But the crack that split the night air wasn’t from his weapon. It was from the Germans.

Michael stumbled and fell to his knees. He tried to rise, to disarm the other man, but all the strength seemed to have left his legs. His arms, too, dropped to his sides and his rifle clattered as it hit the ground.

His chest hurt.

He looked down. A circle of blood bloomed on his uniform, growing larger and larger before his eyes like red wine spilled on a table.

He’d been shot?

A bellow jerked his attention to the blacksmith whose life he’d saved. The man knocked the pistol out of the German’s hands with his shovel, nearly decapitating the soldier with a sharp jab of the blade to his neck.

“Going to need another grave at this rate,” Michael said, but it only came out as a whisper. Damn, he couldn’t even talk properly.

The blacksmith dropped his bloody weapon and grabbed Michael before he could fall into the dirt. “How bad is it?”

“How should I know?” Again, his voice lacked all conviction. “I’m not a doctor.”

“Your wife is a nurse.”

“Yes, my wife.” Thank God he still believed that piece of fiction. “My friend, if you think marrying a woman gives a man any clue as to what she’s thinking, you’re very wrong. I guarantee I won’t hear the end of this for a long time.”

The blacksmith hoisted him up into his arms and the pain knocked the breath out of him. Another moment of its excruciating fire and the world went dark.