A Kestrel Rising (22 page)

“Mrs. Callow said she would light the fires for us,” Francis told her, when he pulled the car up in front of the door. “The key should be under the flowerpot on the porch. If you open the door, I’ll fetch everything from the car.”

Ilona climbed out of the car and hurried to the front porch. A single, empty pot rested beside the door and the key was there. She fumbled with the ancient lock and nudged the door open. She stepped into the front room, lit only by the flickering, orange light of the fire. It was not as spartan as Francis had implied. There was a large settee, covered in faded chintz, in front of the fire and armchairs on either side. It seemed very cozy to her.

Francis walked in behind her. “Very nice.” He set their bags down and brought a box in from the porch. “Food,” he said. “We won’t starve. Now, where’s the kitchen?”

Ilona took a deep breath and closed the door. This was it. There was no driving or rain to distract them. No family members would burst into the room and interrupt, there would be no air raid sirens, just Francis and her. She thrust her trembling hands back into her coat pockets and followed him out of the front room into a small hallway. Stairs rose from one end and a door leading to the kitchen marked the other. It was small, with a well-scrubbed linoleum floor, and a huge black range dominated one wall. It was lit and cast off comforting warmth. Francis set the box on the table next to a basket of eggs. “Ah, we’ve been left a note.” He handed it to Ilona and searched for the larder.

She read it aloud. “Dear Captain and Mrs. Robson, welcome to Poplar Cottage. As promised, I’ve lit the fires and there is plenty of firewood in the shed by the back door. You should have more than enough for five days. I’ve left you a dozen eggs and there’s a pint of milk and a bit of butter. If you need any more, just drive up to the farmhouse, which is the next turning off the main road, and I will happily provide some. I hope that you find everything in order and that you have a lovely time while you’re here. It’s a shame about the weather but, perhaps, it will pick up a little in a day or two. Please let me know if there’s anything else that you need. Sincerely, Irma Callow.”

She set the note down and watched her companion empty the box into the larder. “What did you do? Rob a shop?”

He laughed. “That’s the beauty of being with the good old USAAF. We have a very good store on the base now. I told you we wouldn’t starve.”

There was cheese, bread, several packages wrapped in white butcher’s paper, tins of pineapples and peaches, tins of peas and carrots, and she counted four bottles of wine. “Don’t tell me you bought the wine on the base.”

“Nope. Those are from Harry’s friend, the landlord. Four bottles of very old burgundy, courtesy of Harry.” He set them on the countertop, alongside a packet of tea. “I couldn’t get coffee but, since you’re English, I thought you’d prefer tea anyway.” He tucked the box under the table and took her hand. “Now, that’s the domestic stuff over and done with, shall we explore?”

Ilona looked at him. The small things were addressed. She could no longer hide her apprehension behind putting food away or talking about the weather.

“Your hand is shaking,” he said softly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m nervous.” There seemed little point in dancing around the truth. When she walked up the stairs with Francis, she would be leaving Ian behind. She thought she had dealt with her ghosts and with the memories. There was too much about this that was familiar—an old cottage, hiding from the war, seeking refuge from the grind of everyday life and danger. Everything churned inside her and she struggled to speak. She had made a promise to move on with her life and she had to leave Ian behind. He was no longer there to make love to her. Ilona still wasn’t sure whether it was just pure physical need that had brought her to this moment or whether there was something more in Francis that pulled at her like the tide.

“It’s all right, Ilke.” His hand was warm on her face. “It’s okay to feel this way. This isn’t something I intend to take lightly. I won’t rush you. I won’t force you…not if you don’t want to.”

She closed her eyes when he brushed at the tears that clung to her eyelashes. “I do want to,” she told him. “There’s nothing I want more than to walk up those stairs with you.” Her eyes stung and she managed a shaky smile. “I
do
need you, Francis.”

“Are you sure?”

His concern tugged at her. The die had been cast months before in the middle of a country lane on a summer evening. She took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m sure.”

He took her hand once more. “Thank you, darling. Everything will be all right. I promise you.”

He led her into the hall and up the dark, lopsided staircase. There were only two doors off the landing, one for the bathroom and another led into the bedroom, which was warm and darkened by the beamed ceiling. The bed faced the two small windows, which admitted watery gray light into the room.

“This will do very nicely.” Francis turned to face her.

“Yes, it will.” She trembled when he put his hand under her chin.

He looked at her for a long time and Ilona gazed steadily back. The final shreds of apprehension disappeared and she reached for him.

“Ilke, darling,” he whispered before kissing her. His hands crept to her hips and pulled her toward him.

She put her arms around his neck and gave in, responding with equal fire until he groaned and began to work at the buttons on her jacket, pushing it away with great impatience as she struggled with the buttons on his. He released the knot from her tie and the buttons of her shirt fell away under his fingers. She kissed his throat as he shrugged out of his shirt, letting it drop to the floor. Somehow, they found the bed, leaving the rest of their clothes behind. The last fragile memories of her first, great love were swept away. There was nothing gentle or reverent about the way Francis touched her. His hands left a trail of fire in their wake and he quivered when she touched him. He moved with a certainty that left her breathless, as if he intended to take possession of every inch of her. He drew her toward him until there was no space between them, covering her face with kisses and plunging his hands into her hair. The muscles on his back rippled beneath her fingers and he sighed, returning to her lips as if he sought to breathe her breath. There were no whispered endearments, just a wordless collision, full of heat and fury and wildness. She breathed in the scent of his aftershave and, beneath that, the scent of his skin. It brought with it echoes of a summer’s dusk and of a cold, gray afternoon and many more memories besides. There was an inevitability about this moment and, when he finally slipped into her, he released a long steady, sigh. “Ah, God, Ilke.” He buried his face in her neck. “Ilke.”

Ilona gathered him into her, reveling in the warmth and he moved with an artless grace that she did her best to follow, the only music the endless song of the rain and his quickening breaths. He found that deep, elemental part of her and set it free. Only then did she break her silence, crying out when she left the rain and the fire behind, following him into the light that he had made for her. He consumed her. Francis was everywhere around her. She collapsed in his arms and sobbed because she didn’t know what else to do and he fell against her, spent and exhausted. He whispered her name and held onto her. They lay in silence for a while, listening to the relentless rain and the sporadic hiss and crackle of the fire. Ilona let her hands drift to his face and she turned to look at him, feeling weak and lost for words because
thank you
seemed inadequate.

“Are you all right?” He brushed the tears from her cheeks with his fingers.

She nodded, smiled and kissed him, losing her hands in his tousled hair. “Very much so.”

“See.” He grinned. “I’m not just a pilot.”

“No, you’re certainly much more than that.”

“I never slept a wink last night,” he told her. “Thinking about being here, like this.”

“I feel guilty, because I slept well, but then, I’ve spent the past few weeks doing nothing but thinking about this.” She sighed. “I’m sorry about…earlier.”

“It’s all right.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. “I understand. No more second thoughts, I hope.”

“No, far from it.”

He pulled her to him until her face rested against his chest. He traced lazy spirals along her arm. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Ilona felt boneless and exhausted. She rested her hand in the hollow of his throat, wanting to remain as close to him as possible. It seemed that he wanted the same as his arm tightened around her and his deep, even breathing told her that he had fallen asleep.

* * * *

Ilona woke to a warm tangle of limbs and blankets. Even in sleep Francis sought to possess her, his leg thrown over hers and his arm wrapped around her waist. She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to. Outside, the rain continued in the gathering gloom of dusk. She watched Francis for a while, wanting him, willing him to wake. He had put on some much-needed weight since Christmas and the once sharp lines and angles of his face were softer. He was beautiful, especially when his eyes were open—those magnificent, rich brown eyes, full of secrets and light. She bit her lip and followed the curve of his eyebrow with her finger. He stirred, blinking in the gloom.

He blessed her with a slow smile. “How long have we been asleep?”

“Quite a while. It’s starting to get dark.”

He glanced over her shoulder at the windows. “Hmmmm, so it is. Mind you, it
is
winter and the days here are ridiculously short”—he slid his hand to her waist—“which is why we come up with good things to do with each other in the dark.”

She felt him stir against her. “I can’t imagine what.”

“Let me explain.” He covered her mouth with his.

* * * *

They ate bread and cheese and shared a bottle of wine as they sat in the fire-lit darkness of the sitting room. Francis turned on the wireless and they talked quietly while the music played and the ever-present rain splattered against the windows. Ilona had closed the curtains to shut out the gloom, leaving the room a warm haven from the night. They finished their meal and sat side by side on the settee. She rested against him while he put his arm around her shoulders and idly played with her hair.

“I can think of worse places to be right now,” he said.

“Out in the rain, for a start.”

“Or trying to sleep on a cot in a barracks, when half your bunk mates snore. It’s like trying to sleep in a sawmill.”

“I know what that’s like.” She sipped her wine. “This is much, much better.”

“You don’t snore, do you?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

He nibbled at her ear. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

She shivered.
Whispering Grass
came on the wireless. Francis took the glass from her unresisting hand and pulled her gently to her feet.

“You know,” he whispered, “we’ve never danced.”

“No, we haven’t.” She let him lead her into the dance, leaning against him as he carefully threaded his fingers through hers and rested his other hand on the small of her back. Although the song was short, he kept her dancing while the announcer talked and led into
Harbor Lights
. He held her close and she looked at his face. He kissed her fingers and they danced to the sound of the radio and the whispering rain.

When the first notes of
Moonlight Serenade
crept through the room, foolish tears burned her eyes and she hid her face, her throat tight.

“Ilke?” Francis’ hand was on her face, finding the tears there. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” Part of her wanted to push him away, to keep that one memory untouched. She bit back a sob but held her place. She owed it to Francis not to give in to tears.

He sighed. “You still have your ghosts, don’t you?”

“I guess I do. I’m sorry.” Something twisted inside when she saw the hurt in his eyes.

“Don’t be,” he said softly. “I’m here, if that’s any help.”

“It is,” she replied. “It really is.”

“Shall I turn the wireless off?”

“No, I
want
to dance with you. I loved this song before. I still love it now, and I want keep loving it, for all the
right
reasons.” Ilona kissed him, wanting to drive his pain away. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to move on, if I didn’t want to be with you.”

“Let me help you,” he whispered, between kisses.

“Yes.” She closed her eyes as he eased her down onto the settee.

His touch was all the help she needed. For the moment, the memories he made for her would be enough.

* * * *

Ilona peered out of the bedroom window at the water laying on the fields and the drive. She could not recall having ever seen so much rain. She was glad of it because it gave them the excuse they both needed to remain indoors and not be distracted by sightseeing or errands. In the three days that they had been in the cottage, she realized that they had made love in every room in the house.

“Is it still raining?” Francis asked, still half asleep in the tangle of sheets.

“Yes, it’s pouring.”

“Thank God, it’s only Tuesday. We don’t have to go anywhere, do we?”

“No.” Ilona did not want to go anywhere. She could not get over her relentless need for him. Even now in the early morning gloom, she wanted him. “Shall I fetch you a cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely.” He pulled the covers back to his chin. “You’re wearing me out, Ilke.”

She giggled. “It works both ways.” She put his shirt on and slipped out of the warm bedroom.

The range fire was burning low. Ilona added some more wood and put the kettle on. She could make a decent cup of tea. She pottered about the kitchen, listening to the rain as she put away the dishes from the night before and spooned tea leaves into the pot. Ilona loved the novelty of being in a place that was entirely their own, if only for a handful of days. They had to answer to no one but each other—no planes to fly, no lorries to drive, no canteen meals. She smiled as the kettle boiled. It was too easy to get used to this life.