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33. Together
AFTER OUR STUNT at the radio station and a long trek through the forest to reach the clearing where the aircraft was waiting for us, I was so tired that the flight back to France didn’t bother me. In fact, I fell asleep, wrapped up in Roy’s arms, safe and warm, with his heart beating against my cheek. It couldn’t get better than that.
When we landed in Vigne-aux Bois, a small town in France close to the German border, the sun was rising, spreading its pink brilliance over the emerald expanses of the Ardennes in a good omen of hope and joy. Our mission in Venlo hadn’t gone well, but the one in Gleiwitz had been a success. Hitler would have to wait to start his war.
Yawning, I staggered across the landing field to be ushered into a car, not sure where we were heading. The air was fresh with the scent of flowers and manure, and it sizzled with energy.
Pierre sat on my right, drumming his fingers on his knee, scanning the streets.
“Nervous?” Roy asked from the other side of the back seat.
“I want to know if our plan worked.” He pointed at a two-storey house of white stone bricks close to a short bridge. “You go and rest in the flat. It’s one of the safe houses we use. I’ll contact Avilley Rouillot and bring news.”
After the cab pulled over at the kerb, Roy and I exited, Pierre’s anguish contagious. Everything had gone well. Why was he nervous?
“Wait,” Pierre said from the cab, handing us the key. “For you. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Please, be dressed.” He winked. Cheeky sod.
I laughed, but Roy frowned and muttered something about the Frenchman being too sassy.
“Do you think we failed?” I asked, as Roy opened the front door.
“No, but Pierre is right about checking. We can never be too sure.”
The narrow flight of stairs in front of me tore a groan out of me and sent a phantom shot of pain up my body. “My legs are going to kill me.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Roy swept me off my feet and climbed the stairs, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was carrying me.
“And they say that chivalry is dead.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and snuggled closer to him, feeling the air between us charging with energy.
His soft lips brushed my cheek as he unlocked the door to the flat. “Nice,” he said, closing the door with the heel of his boot.
Reluctantly, I jumped out of his embrace and walked around the flat. White tiles with a flower pattern reflected the sunlight that filtered through pristine curtains. A pastel-blue sofa faced a fireplace, but there weren’t carpets or coffee tables around, only a few mismatched armchairs. No shelves either. Instead, the kitchen was fully equipped with a wood-burner cooker, a complete set of pots and pans, all types of knives to slice everything from carrots to mutton, and even a fully supplied pantry with fresh vegetables, blocks of cheese, chocolate, and wine. Well, I wasn’t going to complain about that. There were three bedrooms, but I had the feeling that we were going to need only two. My stomach gave a loud roar, reminding me that I was suffering from a different type of hunger.
Roy frowned. “You’re hungry. Why don’t you wash yourself while I prepare something?”
“That sounds great.” Clean towels formed a stack in the bathroom. I stopped on the threshold; the white porcelain tub was extremely inviting. “Don’t you fancy a bath?” I shouted towards the kitchen.
Roy walked over to me, his gaze darkening. “I do.” He coiled an arm around my waist. “But Pierre will be here in minutes, and I don’t want to rush.” He kissed my neck. “I want to take my time.”
Always the logical one. “All right.”
By the time I finished cleaning the dirt and sweat from my body, Pierre was back, judging by the noises and loud, fast French words coming from the corridor. My French wasn’t good enough to understand what he was saying, and from his tone, I couldn’t tell if he was delivering good or bad news. I was towelling myself dry, my wet hair falling over my breasts, when the door was flung open and, a bottle of champagne in one hand, Pierre barged inside, grinning and flashing his white teeth. I squeaked, covering myself with the towel, but he ignored me.
“Succès.” He lifted the bottle that was foaming at the end. “The broadcast didn’t happen. No one heard the damn message, and Murphy is safe, thanks to Norma and Connor.”
“That’s excellent.” I perched on the edge of the bathtub, water dripping from my wet hair, and covered my girl parts as best as I could.
Pierre offered me the bottle. “Champagne? We can have a—”
“Get out of the bathroom.” Roy stomped up behind him, eyes ablaze.
Pierre shrugged. “It’s not the first time I see a naked woman and—”
Whatever he was about to say was cut off by Roy, who grabbed him by the neck and dragged him outside, leaving a trail of champagne bubbles behind.
I laughed, releasing the tension in my belly. The smell of coffee and those lovely French brioches wafted from outside. My appetite doubled.
~ * ~
