A Rose in No-Man's Land (23 page)

“Mark, oh, Mark,” she shrieked, hurling herself at him, raining excited kisses all over his face.

“How’s my lovely girl?”

“All right. How long have you got?”

“Just a forty-eight-hour leave.” He crushed her to him. “My God, Amy,” he said with a groan, kissing her with fierce desperation.

Amy returned him kiss for kiss, straining herself wantonly closer, inhaling his male scent, letting it seep into the very core of her being so she would remember it forever.

“I’ve dreamed of this for weeks. I’ve had a hell of a time over the last few days. Lost a lot of good men.”

His fingers worked frantically, loosening her blouse and pushing away her camisole so he could suckle her ripening nipple into a hard peak. Whirlpools of excitement swirled around in her stomach as he undressed her in quick, jerky movements.

Picking her up, he carried her into the bedroom. There would be no seduction, not now. He dropped her on the bed and dragged off his uniform, still spattered with French mud. Before he joined her on the bed she saw his maleness in all its glory. Magnificent and beautifully aroused, it sprang from beneath a crown of black curls.

He nudged her thighs apart to give his throbbing shaft access to her hot quivering womanhood. Such intensity of need, escalated by absence and war, could not be sustained for more than a few moments. Though exquisite and so all-consuming, emotional tears sprang to her eyes because it ended too soon.

“Don’t cry, my darling,” he whispered, licking the tears away. “I’m going to really seduce you now. I’m going to deny us both, to build up our need, hold back until we’re almost demented with desire, before I take you to paradise.”

“Oh, yes, Mark, I love you so much, a little part of me dies each time you leave.”

Finally exhausted and satiated, they slept, woke, made love, and slept some more. By the time they were up and dressed, it was midmorning.

“I’ll see Mrs. St. John to give her some money,” Mark said. “We’ll go to the Savoy for lunch, and after that to Harrods so you can do some shopping.”

“I don’t need anything more. You’ve bought me enough already.”

“I need a couple of items myself, but I want to buy some pretty things for you. Let me do this, darling, I want to spoil you. Nothing is too good for my precious Amy.”

Mark strode off. He did not particularly like Mrs. St. John, and he knew the woman hated Amy for some strange reason.

A forty-eight-hour leave was not long, but it would temporarily wipe the carnage of Pozieres, Mouquet Farm, and Thiepval from his memory. The names were a litany of savagery and bloodletting on a scale unimaginable before the Somme offensive began. Thank God Amy was out of it.

“Captain Tremayne, I hoped I might see you.” Mrs. St. John met him at the foot of the stairs.

“How are you, Mrs. St. John? I think I might owe you some money by now.”

“Yes, I’ve written it all down here.” She handed him a slip of paper.

Mark produced his wallet and counted out the notes. What was wrong with the woman? She looked as savage as a meat axe.

“Captain, I know it’s none of my business, but you being a gentleman and away fighting, I’d be failing in my Christian duty if I didn’t tell you this. Last Tuesday she let a man stay overnight.”

“What!” He felt pole-axed. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“No, I’m not. I saw them going into your suite. It was dark in the hallway, but when she turned the light on I saw a tall young soldier.”

The blood in his veins turned to ice.

“Slouch hat, blue hospital uniform, Australian like her.”

The chisel-like words chipped away chunks of his heart piece by piece.

“Thank you for telling me.”

She scurried away. He stood motionless, frozen with grief and pain. Amy, the first woman he’d trusted in years, had betrayed him. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but feeling finally returned to his limbs, and the blood pumped through his veins once more.

Lying bitch. Just like all the others, only worse. He had exposed every vulnerable part of his being to her, had loved her with his body, his heart, his very soul. She greedily took everything he offered, then betrayed him.

Anger raged through him, quickly followed by a cold fury that shivered like icicles along his spine. He turned and took the stairs two at a time, wondering why he wasn’t screaming.

He pushed the door open and entered the sitting room.

“I wondered what…” Amy trailed off. “What is it?” She went toward him, and he backed away.

“How…how could you do this to me?” he asked brokenly.

“What’s happened?”

Her question acted as a catalyst and he completely lost control.

“You dirty, lying trollop,” he snarled. “I ought to kill you for what you’ve done to me. Have I lain on the same sheets as your lover?” he raged. “Or did you change them?”

She reeled back. “Please, it’s not what you think. Harry slept on the couch. He was a wounded soldier.”

“Don’t come near me, you immoral slut!” Venom loaded his tone. “I’m going out for a while. Don’t be here when I get back.” He turned and marched off.

Amy collapsed on the floor and lay there sobbing. How could he have found out about Harry? Mrs. St. John, the horrible old witch, must have seen them.

Trembling, she staggered to her feet. He had left to stop himself from doing her physical harm. He wouldn’t listen to reason while he was so enraged.

She felt ill. The blood pounded in her ears while her stomach churned over sickeningly because Mark had called her such shocking names. To know he believed them nearly destroyed her.

She put on her coat and hat, grabbed some underwear and a couple of changes of clothes, and shoved them into a small case, not caring whether they got creased or not.
Don’t go to pieces now. You have to get away.
Snatching up a blanket on the spur of the moment, she laid it on top before closing the lid. She picked up her handbag, took one last look around their little love nest, and then, feeling about a hundred years old, crept down the stairs.

Like an avenging angel Mrs. St. John hovered in the hall, with a pious, holier-than-thou look on her face. “I warned you, didn’t I?”

“Get out of my way you, you, hideous old witch, or I’ll scratch your eyes out.” Amy didn’t know how she stopped herself from attacking this vicious woman whose spite had ruined her life.

Mrs. St. John jumped aside as Amy stormed past, but her bravado was stone dead before she turned the corner. With her heart weighted down with granite, her eyes streaming with tears, she forced herself to drag one foot after the other. Never before had she felt so devastated or alone. Mark had broken her heart, ruthlessly smashing it into a million pieces with a few vicious words.

After a while she came to a cemetery in the grounds of a church and pushed open a lichen-covered gate. At the far side of the church, under the overhang of a huge stained-glass window, stood a large tombstone. Squeezing into the gap between it and the church wall, she sat with her head resting on her drawn-up knees and sobbed.

“You’re on your own now,” she finally whispered, feeling weak and spent. “You’re in a strange country with nowhere to live, no job, and little money. What are you going to do about it, Smithfield?”

This would have to be her darkest hour. Would she let heartache and Mark’s desertion overwhelm her, or would she fight to survive?

Crawling out from behind the tombstone, she brushed the leaves from her coat, picked up her case, and, with her head held high, marched off. She would walk into London and check Australian headquarters to see if her records had arrived from France. After this, she would buy a paper and see what jobs and accommodation were on offer. It was imperative to quickly find somewhere to stay. It didn’t have to be flash, just clean and cheap.

Chapter 13

Mark’s anger finally burned itself out and he came to his senses, leaving him with a feeling of disgust over the filthy words he had hurled at Amy. Would she forgive him? Surely she would realize he was out of his mind with jealous grief.
I can’t bear to think of another man even looking at her, let alone touching her.
The honesty pared his heart wide open.

He strode into Mrs. St. John’s house, taking the stairs two at a time.
If it takes
me a lifetime, I’ll make it up to her.
He rapped his knuckles against the door and waited. When it remained shut, he called out, “Amy, open up, please.”

“She’s gone.”

“What!” He spun around to face Mrs. St. John, who hovered in the passage.

“Left the house not long after you did. Carrying a case.”

“Do you know where she went?” He pushed the words out past a lump in his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets so she would not see them shaking. God, Amy had taken him at his word and left. Where the hell would she go? He took several steadying breaths trying to regain control. “Do you know where the soldier came from?”

“No.”

“Please, Mrs. St. John, think. I have to find her.”

“Well, he wore one of those blue hospital uniforms.”

Another one of Amy’s wounded strays. Mark hated himself anew.

“The hospital can’t be too far away. I happened to notice them walking off,” Mrs. St. John continued, “but she returned in less than an hour.”

“So there’s a hospital near here?”

The only one I know of is an old mansion in Clovelly Avenue, but it’s…”

“How do I get there?” Mark cut her off. He listened to her instructions, then hurried to the room he and Amy had shared.

He searched through the wardrobe. As far as he could tell, she had taken none of the clothes he’d bought her. She did not intend coming back. He had driven her away with his volatile temper; if he wanted her back, he would have to find her. As he rifled through the drawers in the dresser, he found the note he had written introducing her to his bank. Except for whatever money she had in her purse, she was penniless.

Sick dread washed over him. His lovely Amy would have no idea of the danger waiting to befall her on the mean streets of London. In a strange country, not knowing anyone, where would she go? What would she do? Would the soldier called Harry know of any place she might go?

A fifteen-minute walk found him outside high wrought-iron gates. The mansion had seen better days, but the grounds appeared well kept. His boots crunched on the gravel path.

He took off his cap as he strode toward the middle-aged woman the guard pointed out as being the matron.

“Excuse me, I’m Captain Mark Tremayne. Do you have a patient here named Harry?”

She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“I understand he’s an Australian.”

“Ah, Private Peters. He’s the only Australian we’ve got here.”

“Yes, um, a young blonde lady brought him back from an outing a few days ago.”

“Yes, she was terribly apologetic for not getting him back on time. His brother took him out for the day like he always does when he’s on leave from France. Apparently she took him to her own home for the night, because her watch stopped and the gates were locked when they arrived back.”

“I need to speak with Harry.”

“I don’t think he’ll be able to help you.”

“Please, can you get him? I wouldn’t bother you except it’s an emergency.”

Mark fretted and fumed as he waited. What kind of place was this anyway? Locked gates, for God’s sake. The matron came back followed by a slim, fair young man.

“Harry, this is Captain Tremayne.”

“Private Peters, I’d like to ask you about Amy…” He trailed off when he stared into the soldier’s vacant blue eyes.

“She bought me fish and chips. Are you going to take me out?”

Mark tried to hide his shock as Harry grabbed his hand. This boy wouldn’t be of any help. Death would be preferable to this, poor devil. No wonder Amy took him under her wing. Her soft heart would not have been able to resist him.

“The captain can’t take you out today, Harry,” the matron said. “He’s on leave from France. You go back into the garden and watch the birds. I’ll get nurse to bring you out some lemonade in a minute. All right?”

He nodded, gave Mark a wave, and wandered off.

“It’s a tragedy,” the matron said, watching Harry’s retreating back, “but he’s happy enough in his own little world, loves watching the birds. Retreated into childhood. He’s suffering severe shell shock.”

“Do you think he’ll ever return to normal?”

“I doubt it, but you can never tell. Time and peace and quiet amongst his own people might help. Should be shipped home, but patients like Harry have a low priority when it comes to repatriation. He’s harmless. That’s why we keep him here.”

“Matron, I have to return to France tomorrow afternoon, so I don’t have much time. Amy has been staying, um, with me.” He watched the woman’s lips purse with disapproval, and he hated having to tell her his private business but had no alternative. “We argued. I told her to get out, and she did. I don’t know where she is. I’m desperate to find her, but I’ve got no idea where to look. She’s got no job, nowhere to stay, and little money. What the hell am I going to do?”

Mark put his head in his hands. If he could have done so, he would have wept right then and there. Jesus, what was wrong with him? He could not afford to crack up now.

“Do you think she’ll come back to visit Harry?” he asked, raising his head.

Her condemning expression softened. “She did promise him, Captain.”

“She’ll come, then.” Amy wouldn’t let Harry down. Somehow she would come back. But when? “If she comes back, get her to leave an address. Say you need it for your records.”

“Captain Tremayne, I’m not sure we can do that. What you’re asking is highly irregular.”

“She’s got little money, no job, and nowhere to live, but Amy’s proud. She won’t come back to me,” he went on desperately. “I’ll have to go to her. She’s an army nurse. We were in France together and got involved in a scandal—my fault, of course. I doubt she’ll be able to do any nursing here. She survived Gallipoli and the Somme, but she’ll face a bigger battle trying to survive in London.”