Authors: Merryn Allingham
‘Try and rest. It’s got to end soon,’ Grayson repeated.
She doubted it. It was as though the entire might of Germany was being thrown at them in one single night. But she knew he was right. There was little benefit in continuing to perch on the hardest of chairs. She walked across the room to one of the narrow beds and lay down. Grayson followed suit, lying full length and motionless, his eyes fixed on the whitewashed ceiling.
‘This evening hasn’t exactly ended as we thought,’ she ventured. If she talked, it might soothe the panic she was still finding difficult to control.
He turned his head to look across at her. ‘It hasn’t,’ he agreed. ‘I’m still thinking of the partridge.’
She found herself giving a nervous giggle. ‘Do you think they’re still in the oven?’
‘I sincerely hope not. The smell of incinerated bird is the last thing we need right now.’
Not when incineration was spread for miles around, she thought. What would they face when they finally found their way from this cellar? It sounded as though the entire city was being obliterated.
She checked her watch. It was a few minutes past midnight.
‘Do you think a taxi will manage the journey once the bombing stops?’ She was thinking of the mission she’d had to abandon.
‘To be honest, I’m not sure if any vehicle will get through. We’ll have to decide what best to do when we see the level of damage outside.’
He, too, was imagining a hardly recognisable city and she shivered at the thought. He saw the shiver and rolled off his bed, dropping down to his knees beside her.
‘Try not to worry too much.’ His voice was gentle but resolute. ‘We’re safe, and we’ll stay safe, and so will those wretched papers.’
She smiled a little wanly and he took her hand and held it in his. ‘Come what may, we’ll find a way to deliver them. I promise.’
Her smile grew a little stronger. The warmth of his touch was bracing her against despondency. ‘I’m being defeatist,’ she admitted. ‘I’m sorry. My life has seemed such a mess since Gerald returned that I’m starting to let things get on top of me.’
‘I know how hard—’ he began to say, when an almighty crash sounded from close by, its echoes resonating along the passage beyond. It was wholly unexpected and for a moment she went rigid with shock.
‘What on earth was that?’ she whispered.
‘I’ve no idea but whatever it was, we must stay put,’ and he wrapped his arms fully around her, as if to protect her from the unknown danger.
‘Then we’ll be trapped here.’ Her fears, never far away, began to surface again.
‘If we leave the room, we’ll face even greater danger,’ he reasoned. ‘We have to keep our nerve. I know you can. I’ve seen you under pressure and you were magnificent.’
‘I was? Right now, I’m not feeling too magnificent.’
T
here was another loud crash from somewhere above, then a loud tinkling sound.
‘I think that’s probably the chandeliers,’ he said.
A violent trembling she couldn’t prevent took over her limbs. It must be the result of these last few weeks, she thought. She wasn’t a coward, she wasn’t easily daunted, but this massive raid coming on top of everything else was proving too much.
Without saying a word, Grayson got to his feet and climbed onto the bed beside her. His arms once more wrapped her round. ‘Tell me to go if you don’t want me here.’
She didn’t tell him to go. His body lying close, his arms encircling her, gave the comfort she needed. They lay side by side listening as the thuds and crashes crept slowly nearer, eventually surrounding them on every side. They lay in a circle of noise, in the very centre it seemed, of destruction.
‘What about fire?’ she whispered. The threat of being trapped so far below ground still terrified her.
‘We’ll have to hope there hasn’t been a direct hit, and that the wardens and fire crews are working overhead.’
It was a desperate hope, but he was right. There was nothing else they could do. She closed her eyes, her head finding a comfortable niche on his shoulder. She was so weary that despite the enveloping noise and fury, she drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Until a knock sounded and a waiter put his head around the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you, miss. Just checking that you’re okay.’
She noticed that his black-suited uniform was smeared with crumbling, white plaster. ‘Is the raid over?’ How long she’d slept, she had no idea.
‘Just about.’ The waiter gave her a friendly nod and disappeared.
Grayson had been asleep too, it seemed, and was now stretching himself lazily awake.
‘So it’s finished,’ he said. An uneasy quiet reigned in the building. ‘Are you feeling brave enough to venture out?’
‘Of course, I am. And I’m sorry I was so feeble last night.’ She gave him a small hug. ‘Thank you for being a rock.’
He planted a light kiss on the top of her head. ‘If it’s a rock that I am then so be it. Come on, we should make a move. These beds are damned uncomfortable.’
‘I don’t think they’re meant to sleep two.’
‘I’m sure they’re not, but so much nicer, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, it is.’ Her face flushed and he looked at her, surprised.
For a moment their glances locked, then he leaned across and kissed her on the lips.
‘That’s my prize for being a rock,’ he said softly.
‘Mine too,’ she said even more softly, and kissed him back. She hadn’t meant to but something was driving her, a desperation to know his touch before they parted again, and this for the last time.
He seemed to feel the same desperation for in an instant his arms were round her, enfolding her in the tightest of embraces. He touched her forehead lightly, a butterfly kiss barely grazing her skin, then her eyelids, then her cheeks. His mouth hovered over hers while his hands tangled her dishevelled hair. Then his lips came down hard and she felt her body soften. A long and tender kiss, then another and another. What was she doing, she thought dreamily, kissing Grayson? But she must never stop kissing him. Never.
A slow heat began to uncurl and suffuse her entire body and when his tongue edged open her mouth, she went willingly. Each touch was sweeter than the one before. His hands moved down her body, fingers slipping black lace from her shoulders. She was free. At last she was free: of clothes, of guilt, of all that had barred her happiness. A harsh world was forgotten and the room itself dissolved from view. She was conscious only of the piercingly sweet ache he roused in her. It was an ache that demanded satisfaction, and she was ready.
They seemed not to need words, but lay for long minutes safe in each other’s arms, exhausted and half delirious, barely able to believe what had happened between them.
Eventually, he said, ‘How are you?’
‘I’m well.’ An understatement that was still true. She was well, better than well.
‘No regrets?’ He sounded anxious.
No regrets. How could she have? She was a married woman with a renegade husband to spirit from the land. Making love to a secret service agent was possibly not the cleverest thing she had ever done, but it was certainly the best. Ever since she’d met Grayson, she’d known a connection with him beyond friendship. It had gone unacknowledged by them both, but she’d sensed that beneath his engaging smile and upright bearing, a passionate man had his being. And her intuition had been right. He was a passionate man. And he’d made her a passionate woman. For the very first time in her life, she understood emotions of which she’d only previously read. She was a wife with virtually no knowledge of physical love. One drunken, fumbling night with Gerald, had been her sole experience and she could never have imagined how utterly consuming such feelings could be. But tonight—this morning rather—she knew.
‘We should get going, although I think I might have said that before.’ He nuzzled her neck and she stroked his body in response. Then his hands were stroking her
in return, and slowly and relentlessly awakening her to renewed delight. It was the knock at the door that forced them from the bed.
The head waiter stood on the threshold and coughed apologetically. ‘Will you be requiring a cab, Mr Harte? They’re rather short on the ground this morning.’
Grayson untangled himself and threw on the shirt that lay crumpled on the floor. Daisy could not remember it coming off but there it lay, along with the black lace and the best underwear she possessed.
‘Thank you, Porson. Just one—a taxi for the lady. We’ll be out in a jiffy.’
‘Certainly, sir. I’ll make sure the cab is waiting.’
She scrambled into her abandoned dress, then looked around for her shoes. Grayson retrieved the errant pair from under the bed. ‘You must have kicked them off before you buried yourself under the blankets.’
She felt her skin tighten at the memory of the raid. ‘That was the most terrible night.’
‘Was it?’
‘I meant the raid.’ She couldn’t prevent herself blushing and, seeing it, he scooped her up in his arms and kissed her on the lips. ‘I love it when you blush. And you always do. Your feelings are writ large, Daisy.’
‘If they are, I should be looking anxious. I’m not feeling happy about the day ahead.’
‘You mustn’t worry. I’ve the papers here.’ He fished an innocent brown envelope from the inside pocket of his
jacket and passed it to her. ‘And other than you and me, only a very few people know about them.’
She was looking down at the envelope, her forehead wrinkled slightly. ‘These are the papers?’
‘What did you expect? A parchment scroll with a wax seal?’
‘No, not exactly. I’m being silly, I suppose, but after the trouble they’ve caused, I expected something more … significant.’
‘It’s better they’re insignificant. Bury them in your handbag. The cab can drive you straight to the shop—what was it called, Ripley’s?’
‘Rigby’s.’
‘The cabbie can wait and then take you back to St Barts. I’ll make sure he has his fare.’
‘Thank you.’ She’d been uncomfortably conscious that her handbag contained nothing but small change.
‘There’s no need for thanks between us. Not now.’
‘I suppose not,’ she said shyly.
But she felt a twinge of misgiving, even as she agreed with him. They were making their way along the deserted passage and across a frowsy-looking restaurant, still uncleared from the previous night’s revelry. The truth was she’d been stupid, imagining her life with Gerald had destroyed for ever her capacity to feel. Of course, it had not. And last night had been a triumph over the husband who had never loved her, a husband who had been willing to see her terrified and made mad in order to save himself.
Grayson held her hand as they walked. She snatched a glance at him and felt her body soften in response. But she should stop feeling for a moment, she told herself, and think carefully. She had been determined she would never again make herself vulnerable. Yet last night she’d done just that. It was unwise. The fence she’d been busy erecting, ever since she and Grayson had stepped off the
Strathnaver
at Southampton eighteen months ago, had been under strain several times before, but last night it had splintered irrevocably. And she’d delighted in every moment. No doubt it was the extraordinary setting, the extraordinary events they’d been caught up in, that had spurred the collapse. The fear of death was a powerfully disruptive force, she knew. That was how she must think of their time together. That was what had propelled her into Grayson’s arms and nothing more serious. Their lovemaking had been a necessary release, and no more than that. A release from the tensions of the past few weeks: the war, the bombs, Gerald. But even as the words came to mind, she felt a small shift in her heart.
They’d reached the hotel foyer and a scene of grand destruction greeted them. There had been no direct hit on the hotel, but the reverberations from the intense bombing had loosened the fastenings to the chandeliers and at least three were lying smashed on the silk carpet.
‘How sad,’ she said, as they skirted the debris.
‘Chandeliers can be mended. People can’t—at least not always. We were lucky to escape the worst. I think you
might see some very difficult sights on your journey this morning.’
As Porson had promised, the cab was waiting for them and Grayson handed her in, bringing her hand to his lips as he did so. It was an old-fashioned act of gallantry to warm her on this bleakest of mornings.
‘When can we meet?’ He was leaning into the taxi, his eyes bright, despite lack of sleep. ‘I know you’ll only be able to make an hour or so.’
‘Tuesday probably. In the afternoon, though I can’t be entirely sure.’ She could not reasonably refuse to meet him, and she was honest enough to know she didn’t want to. But she would need to tread very carefully.
‘Tuesday then. I’ll come to the square after lunch and lurk.’
She smiled up at him as he slammed the cab door shut. And then the taxi was on its way.
Grayson had been right about distressing sights. From east to west of the city, a shroud of smoke still hung in the sky and, wherever she looked, there was huge devastation. The cabbie had switched on his radio as soon as they’d pulled away, and through the glass partition she could faintly hear the announcer: last night’s raid had been the worst of the war so far. For most people, radio news was their sole communication with the world, the only way they knew what was happening to friends and
relatives fighting abroad or battling on the Home Front. No casualty figures were given this morning, no precise details of the damage inflicted on London, but that was far from unusual. The BBC was always careful never to broadcast anything that might sap morale. The fact that they’d mentioned the ferocity of the bombing told people all they needed to know.
The cab slowly wound its way through the narrow back streets of Mayfair. She tried to keep her eyes fixed ahead, but her gaze was continually drawn to the disfigured landscape they were passing. Every road was littered with a mountain of rubble, and on all sides there was scarcely a building left with its windows intact. At times the vehicle was forced to a halt by the piles of earth and plaster, bricks and tiles that spilled across the road, but then the driver would wrench his wheel left and right and somehow weave a pathway through. Several times he had to change direction completely, to avoid huge waterlogged craters which had sprung from nowhere. A bomb had breached the Tyburn stream, for centuries trapped underground.