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They will stop a while, she told herself, they will want to check the hut, water their horses, have a rest. Then they will be on their way.
The door swung open with a crash: Hebe stifled a little gasp of fear and froze. Boots came across the earth floor towards their hiding place, someone kicked the sack over the mule saddle, she caught of few words of French, none of which made sense. There was laughter, and outside, someone shouted an order.
Outside there was activity. Suddenly a horse whinnied, almost at her feet, and after a moment’s panicky thought she realised that they were tying their animals up on the rail on the other side of the wall from where she lay. Tying them up?
Boots tramped into the hut again and there was the sound of things being thrown down on the floor and of logs being tossed on to the hearth. They were staying! Oh, no, oh, please, no, she prayed silently. Don’t let them stay.
Chapter Twelve
There was no divine intervention: the troop of French soldiers continued with their preparations with the casual efficiency of men who were used to making themselves comfortable wherever they found themselves. The only mercy was that they created a considerable amount of noise.
Hebe strained her ears and finally began to pick up the odd word. Espagne…fille jolie…demain…someone being chaffed about a Spanish girlfriend he would be seeing tomorrow. Thank goodness, at least they were not settling in to use this hut as an observation post.
She knelt up and, leaning carefully over Alex’s still form, put her eye to a knothole in the planks. They had lit the fire and several lanterns that stood around the room. Packs were set out around the hearth and a few men squatted on them, one slicing something into a pot at his feet. Another was fixing a bar across the fire, apparently to take the great kettle and iron cauldron that stood beside him.
Suddenly more men came in and turned towards Hebe’s hiding place. She jerked back from the wall as though they could see through it, but they were piling saddles and panniers up in the smaller space in front, obviously considering that part of the room too small for the men.
Hebe eased herself down in the bed again, taking advantage of the bustle outside to make herself and Alex as comfortable as possible. She felt along the shelf with infinite care until she found the water, then soaked the cloth in it, before trickling it into Alex’s mouth. She dipped her fingers in and sucked them, too nervous to risk picking up the water container in case she spilled it.
Then she lifted the blanket and slid under it, curving her body around Alex’s again. Only this time her bare legs touched his and she remembered with a frisson that she was naked. She realised she was blushing and almost laughed. Alex was in no state to know whether he had one or a dozen naked women in bed with him. It was an indulgence to relax, to feel the sensation of his skin against hers, the rough hairs on his legs tickling the smoothness of her calves. Hebe wrapped her arms around him and let herself drift into a state that was as near sleep as it was possible to achieve under the circumstances.
She was sleepily aware of a rise in the level of talk and activity in the room and woke, realising the French soldiers were coming in to eat their evening meal. The smell of boiling beans, bacon and onions insinuated itself through the gaps in the planks and tortured her empty stomach.
Then Alex began to move, restless again, murmuring. Hebe tried to keep him still, but he turned within the circle of her arms until he was lying on his side facing her. ‘Wine,’ he said clearly but softly. ‘Red wine.’
‘Oh, hush, darling,’ she whispered back, her lips almost against his mouth.
‘Wine!’ This time it was louder. Hebe laid her palm over his mouth, but he twisted his head away. ‘Landlord!’
In desperation she placed her mouth on his and silenced him with a kiss. It worked wonderfully. He kissed her back gently and Hebe relaxed again. In
a moment his fever-driven fantasy of an inn would have passed. She tried not to think about the kiss as a kiss, or to let herself be aware of the feel of his nape where her hand rested, holding him to her.
Cautiously she drew back, but he moved sharply in reaction and some part of his body, perhaps his heel, hit the plank wall with a force which sounded to Hebe like a hammer blow. She froze, but the noise in the room was too loud for it to have been noted, or perhaps it had sounded like the horses tethered outside.
But while a knock might be ignored, an English voice could not fail to attract attention: she had to stop him speaking. His mouth found hers again and Hebe let the unconscious man kiss her, too frightened and distracted to realise at first what else was happening as his hands began to caress her.
Alex’s fingers slid over her shoulder and found the curve of her breast. Hebe gasped against his lips and tried to wriggle away, but his hands were strong and she was held, not painfully, but with a firmness that told her that she would have to use some force to free herself. And then what? There was hardly room in the cupboard-bed for the two of them as it was. Hebe wriggled again, then realised that her naked body moving against Alex’s was only making things worse.
She was on her back now, his weight over her, his hands still caressing, apparently by blind instinct. And there was the growing realisation that classical statues did not tell the whole story: there were mysteries about the male body she was just beginning to learn. What had Alex said wryly in the garden when she had innocently asked him why he had had trouble sleeping? That the male body was not designed to stop once it had begun, that kissing led on…
Oh, Alex! This was not how it should be, not how she had hazily dreamt of being in his arms. Here, in this remote French mountain cabin with enemy troopers the other side of the wall, and a lover who was making love to some phantom woman who inhabited his fevered dreams.
She knew she could not fight and part of her did not want to. But her untutored, unprepared body was not going to yield easily, whatever her mind told it, and the pain shocked a cry from her that was muffled against Alex’s lips. Tears began to run down her face in the darkness, but even as they flowed, her hands were caressing his shoulders and her legs were twining with his.
‘I love you,’ she whispered against his mouth. ‘Alex, darling….’ And something miraculous was happening: through the discomfort and the shock and the fear, despite the sound of French voices singing marching songs only feet away, something was happening to her body. Hebe felt it begin to follow Alex’s movements, felt a deep, building sensation that made her want to cling even tighter to him. His hands made her body flame everywhere he touched her. Something was happening, something that in a moment she would understand. Hebe felt her whole body tense as she reached for it, then Alex went rigid above her, his cry lost against her shoulder, and finally collapsed against her, still and quiet.
The rest of the night passed for Hebe as though she and not Alex was in the fever. The noise outside, the fact that death was the thickness of a plank away and that a cough, a sneeze, an inquisitive soldier, would end everything—none of that seemed important any more.
She fell into an uneasy doze, her aching body trapped under Alex’s, far too hot where he touched her, her feet cold to the point of numbness. She tried to think about what had just happened, tried to find out just what she was feeling, but could not.
There was almost quiet in the room beyond now. Men snored, the fire crackled and she could hear the sentries outside exchanging desultory conversation as they passed each other. Finally dawn came and the troop, grumbling and muttering, roused itself for the new day.
Someone was brewing coffee: Hebe felt her mouth watering and swallowed, hurting her dry throat. Would they never be gone? At last they began to pack up and finally went on their way and she even remembered to hold her breath with anxiety as she heard their climbing footsteps pass the roof line of the hut, pass the path leading to the mule’s little pasture—pass it and be gone.
Hebe heaved against the weight pinning her down and managed to slide out from under Alex’s body. With hands that shook she unfastened the planks and climbed down into the room, pulling the cloak with her. Wrapped in it, she tiptoed out, stepping over discarded rubbish, and surveyed the scene outside. It was all clear.
Somehow, as though she had shut off her mind entirely, she managed to wash and dress. A pair of the culotte trousers came to her ankles, but could be belted in tightly and were easier to move in than a skirt. She tucked in a shirt and threw the shawl over her shoulders, crossing it in front and then knotting it at the back. A length of thread unravelled from a blanket tied back her hair, and the crude leather shoes at last seemed to be moulding to the shape of her feet.
