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He shot me a quick, hard glare. “Yes, and?”
“Well, you shouldn’t be insecure. You’re a condottiero, for Pete’s sake, and women throw themselves at you. A woman would be out of her mind to cheat on you, if she were lucky enough to be with you. Why, you should be the most confident of men.”
The sudden sadness that veiled his face made me catch my breath. “I had to be perfect at everything,” he said in a low voice. “Commander Thompson expected absolute perfection from a condottiero. Clothes clean and pressed. Flawless fighting. Perfect German. Room in perfect order.” He chuckled bitterly. “I always failed with the last one. I had to lead by example, working harder than everyone else. But he was never satisfied. He called me lazy and sloppy. I probably was. I feel like I am.”
Tears stung my eyes. “You aren’t lazy or sloppy. What Thompson did to you sounds horrible.”
“That’s how I grew up.” And just like that, he clammed up. The icy condottiero was back.
I leaned back in the seat, wishing he’d keep talking. But with Roy, it was always like that. He let me catch a glimpse of his true self only to clam up afterward, leaving me to collect the pieces of our conversation.
The traffic intensified around London, then thinned again as we drove north towards Hertfordshire.
When the gentle hills of Crawley Farm swept into view, a smile tugged at my lips. Even though Aunt Mabel wasn’t my real aunt, she was the woman who had taken care of me, like a mother would her daughter. She’d done her best to keep me safe and loved me. Crawley Farm was my home.
As we drove through the busy High Road, I grinned at the familiar shops, the library with its decorated wooden door—Lord, I’d spent days in that library, reading on one of the cosy sofas—the Oldie Bell, the public house of Mr Holmes, who claimed his pub was the oldest in England, and the hair salon of Mrs Styles, who had gone mad trying to tame my wayward curls. I’d been away for almost a year, but nothing had changed. It was comforting and sad at the same time. Bright Christmas decorations sparkled in Mrs Hoggins’s café. The air was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and cinnamon. The short man with the bowler hat, striding along the pavement in a hurry, was Mr Walters, my former employer. I sighed. So many memories.
Trees and shrubs grew at the edges of the road as we left the town centre behind. The pale-blue walls of my cottage came into view from behind a curve, shining in the sunlight. Stupid tears pricked my eyes. Home.
“Here we are,” Roy said, pulling over at the end of the driveway.
The argument with him slipped out of my mind while I jumped out of the car. The front door was flung open before I could knock on it.
“Kristin.” Aunt Mabel opened her arms to welcome me. Her raven hair was pulled up in a loose chignon that enhanced her high cheekbones, and flour dusted her simple blue dress.
I hugged her fiercely, a sudden wave of homesickness overwhelming me. Her familiar lavender scent filled my nostrils. Only a hint of disinfectant lingered on her clothes from the hospital where she worked as a nurse. When the SS had taken me, I’d thought I would never see her again. “Auntie.”
“You’re early. So glad you’re here.” She patted my back. “Mr Turner, nice to see you again,” she said to my silent companion, an arm still draped over my shoulders.
“Mrs Easterwood.” He removed his hat, his mop of dark curls tumbling over his cheeks. I wished he wasn’t so carelessly handsome. “Hope you’ve been well.”
Aunt Mabel nodded, a beaming smile lighting her face and causing a few wrinkles to appear around her eyes. “Thank you for bringing Kristin home. I expected her later tonight or tomorrow.”
His gaze swept over me for a moment. “It was a pleasure, and I had to travel to Hertfordshire, anyway.”
I wasn’t sure he’d enjoyed himself in my company.
“Please, come in.” She held the door open. “I’ve made tea and oat biscuits.”
“I…” He turned towards the car, holding his hat.
“Please,” Aunt Mabel insisted in that kind but firm tone that had convinced me to do her bidding on many occasions.
“Thank you.” Even Roy knew when a battle was lost, but I wasn’t sure I was happy to have him in my house. The turmoil he caused inside me was exhausting, and I wanted to relax with my aunt.
“Parsley.” I crouched, opening my arms to our ginger cat curled on a plush cushion in front of the warm hearth. He narrowed his emerald eyes, tail slashing the air. He’d never been particularly warm towards me. Animals sensed the beast inside me and didn’t trust me. Since my beast came out, Parsley had glared at me with suspicion. At least he didn’t hiss. I stroked his silky fur gently under his wary scrutiny. He stared at me as if to say, ‘if you try anything funny, I’ll scratch you silly.’
When Roy stepped inside, Parsley arched his back and decided that fighting two beasts at the same time was too much. Time for a strategic retreat. He disappeared inside another room, his ginger tail snapping the air indignantly. Roy’s gaze followed him, a quick glint flashing. The predator inside him must have been aroused.
Aunt Mabel shook her head at Parsley. “Cats are so mercurial. He’s been fine until now. Please, this way.”
A Christmas tree took up a corner of the sitting room with golden and red glass baubles, crimson tinsels, and candles. I sucked in a breath as a pang of guilt stabbed at my chest. Aunt Mabel and I had always made the tree together. We’d bought the star at the top when I was five, the red ribbons on the branches when I was eight. The angel had been bigger than my hand, and I’d fallen in love with its glittering wings. Colourful boxes with large ribbons rested under the tree. Doris’s elegant writing and Gladys’s messy one filled some of the labels. My best friends. Another knot of nostalgia swelled in my throat.
Aunt Mabel squeezed my hand. “Welcome home.”
Oh, dear. I might cry.
Roy gazed around before sitting on the sofa, back straight and fingers fidgeting with his hat. He’d grown up in Raven Park with other beasts. Celebrating Christmas with a proper family was something unknown to him.
