Clash by Night (19 page)

As he drove his mind was fixed solely on Brigitte Duclos. He gave no further consideration to the object of his trip or his commander’s affinity for the little librarian. His initial puzzlement had faded into a detached acceptance of that liaison and he now had a more personal concern to occupy his thoughts.

He wanted Brigitte. He had a simple nature and didn’t analyze such things. When he’d first seen her he’d wanted her. He never puzzled about why. And he was gaining ground. Her resistance was breaking down, he could feel it. Slowly she was learning that he was not a threat and accepting his presence in her life. And that was all he desired. He didn’t worry about their circumstances, which might have daunted a less optimistic soul. He would figure it out as long as he was able to see Brigitte.

His passenger was waiting inside the nave of the church and stepped forward as the tires of his car crunched the gravel on the drive. Hesse stared as he got out and held the door for her.

She was wearing a yellow linen dress, obviously her best, and her unbound hair flowed loosely over her shoulders in a shining curtain. Her expression was relaxed, glowing with the anticipation of Becker’s company, and Hesse thought: this is what he sees. This is what she looks like when she’s with him.

“Good evening,” he said in French.

She nodded and got into the back seat. He resumed his place behind the wheel and drove off without another word.

It was full dark as they got back to Bar-le-Duc. Becker had timed it right and she would not be seen. Hesse parked the car at the kitchen entrance and led the woman through the maze of steam tables and steel sinks to the exit that opened onto the resident’s wing. He knocked on Becker’s door as the librarian waited nervously behind him. He could almost feel her trepidation: excitement mixed with the barest hint of fear. Of the man she was meeting? Or of the perilous situation? He didn’t know.

Becker opened the door at the first knock, his dark eyes moving past Hesse to the woman.

“Here is your guest, sir,” the boy said, bowing and stepping back.

Becker reached past him to take Lysette’s hand and lead her forward.

“Thank you, Hesse, you may go,” he said dismissively, pulling the door closed behind the Frenchwoman.

Hesse waited until the lock clicked, turned on his heel and left.

“You look lovely,” Becker said to Lysette as he led her inside. She glanced around the room. Its appointments were spare, almost Spartan, with the exception of a vintage spinet in a polished cherry cabinet that graced one corner, and an ormolu ship’s clock on the mantel of the brick fireplace. A pile of books rested on a plain oak desk under the window. She recognized some of the titles as coming from her library.

Lysette walked over to the piano. “Where did you get this?” she asked wonderingly.

Becker joined her and ran his hand lovingly over the fine wood. “I found it abandoned in the basement under a pile of crates. Hesse cleaned it up for me and brought it in here.”

“Do you play?” Lysette asked.

He shook his head, smiling slightly. “Not really. I was forced to take lessons as a child, from a music tutor engaged by my parents. I’m afraid I resented the time practicing took away from my soccer games and was never very good.”

Lysette glanced up at him. His black hair was combed back neatly from his brow, his tunic freshly brushed, his shoes polished to a high sheen. But she knew this was not the result of a special effort made on her behalf. He always looked the same: perfect.
 

“But why would you want to restore it if you can’t even use it?” she asked him.

“I thought it was beautiful,” he replied, shrugging, in a tone that expected her to understand that its beauty was reason enough for his action.

There was another knock at the door. Becker called something in German and a uniformed soldier, not the boy who had brought her, wheeled in a cart containing some covered dishes and a chilled bottle of wine.

“I took the liberty of ordering a dinner from the Cheval Blanc,” Becker explained. “Would you like something to drink?”

She nodded. He decanted the wine while the boy set up a table behind them. Lysette watched Becker’s quick, efficient movements, feeling a momentary flash of guilt at enjoying such treatment while her countrymen were scrounging for essentials. Then she dismissed it. She had determined to put those thoughts aside for this one evening, and she would.
 

Lysette accepted a glass from Becker as the soldier hovered in the background to wait on them. On a whim, she sat at the piano and lifted the cover from the keys, setting her drink on the floor.

“I can play,” she offered, fingering the ivory keys lightly.

“Yes?” Becker responded, delighted. He moved closer.

“The Sisters taught me.” She began with Beethoven, moving through several pieces and looking up when he stirred at the last one.

“
Fur Elise
,” he said flatly.

Something in his demeanor alerted her and her hands stilled.

“What is it?” she asked.

“They say he wrote that for his daughter,” Becker answered vaguely.

Lysette was still watching him closely. With a curt gesture he sent the boy from the room and walked to the window, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Why does it bother you?” she asked quietly, when the soldier was gone.

“My wife used to play it all the time,” he finally replied. “Her name is Elise.”

“Then I’ll change to something else,” Lysette said calmly. She did, playing for about ten minutes as he looked on, his manner returning to quiet contentment while he listened. He hummed along with the final selection, applauding as she concluded.

“Mendelssohn,” he said. “My favorite.” Then a shadow crossed his face. “He is forbidden now.
Verboten
.” He used the German word for emphasis, then downed the rest of his drink.

“Why?” Lysette asked. It seemed a ridiculous idea.

“His grandfather was a philosopher. Jewish.”

Lysette looked down. “Oh,” she said faintly.

“Which means, of course, that the music has changed,” Becker said sarcastically. He took her arm and raised her from the stool, dropping the cover over the keys with his other hand. “It still sounds the same to me,” he added darkly, and indicated the chair in which she was to sit.

Lysette dropped into it, unable to meet his eyes.

“Now,” he said, observing her expression, “I’ve made you unhappy.”
 

She glanced up at him. “No.”

“Yes, I have, and I will change the subject. I would like to talk of the past, since our present circumstances are so...difficult. Do you agree?”

Lysette nodded eagerly, glad to see his black mood pass. The boy returned and served them an excellent meal while Becker told her about his childhood on his family estate in Feldberg on the Franco-Swiss border, the summers he spent in Carlsbad with his parents and siblings, the charmed life he led when he was young. She listened, entranced; it was like fiction to her, as different from her early life as she could possibly imagine. They were sharing after dinner coffee, their waiter dismissed, when she finally broke the stream of his reminiscence by saying, “You were trained for military action. Yet here you’re more like a policeman.”

He nodded resignedly. “That’s true.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be off fighting the war?” she inquired curiously.

His expression changed and she feared she had overstepped her bounds with him. But then he rose and said quietly, “I would, yes. But I made myself unpopular and so was assigned this unpopular duty.”

When she said nothing, he went on, as if to himself, “This... arrangement was meant to bring shame on me. Though I don’t see how a man can fall from grace when there was no honor in his original position, do you?”

It was a rhetorical question and Lysette didn’t answer it. She was sorry she had broached the subject.

He reached across the table and twined his fingers with hers. His olive skin made hers look very pale by comparison.

“I would like to say that your company has greatly eased the burden of this post,” he murmured.

His hand was callused, large and warm. Hers was lost in it. She studied the tracery of dark hairs across the back of it, then looked up to meet his eyes.

He was watching her intently. His lips parted as if he were about to say something when the soft chiming of the mantel clock indicated the lateness of the hour.

Becker released her hand and rose immediately.

“I must keep you no longer,” he said politely. “I will call Hesse to drive you back at once.”

Lysette had no choice but to get up also. He stood back to let her precede him to the door and then he followed, reaching out to touch her face.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said quietly. “It has helped me for a little to forget all this.” He gestured expansively to indicate the hospital, the town, the world that put them at odds. “But now it’s time for you to go.”

Lysette was about to take a chance. She put her hand on his arm.

“I’d like to stay,” she said softly. Her fingers were like feathers against his sleeve.

Becker missed a beat. He had not expected this. There was a silence.

“Do you understand what it would mean?” he replied finally, his voice uncertain.

“I understand.”

“You know what your own people would do to you if they found out about it?”
 

“I know,” she said firmly.

He examined her face for any sign of weakness or dissembling. He found none.

“Then you will stay, Lysette,” he said quietly. He put his hand on her shoulder and she turned slowly into his arms.

He held her for a long moment, his eyes closing with the sheer luxury of physical contact. She felt small and slim in his embrace, her hair a drift of gossamer against his cheek.

When he let her go he took her hand and brought her through a connecting door. This led to a small bedchamber, even starker than the sitting room. It contained a bed and nightstand, a reading chair and a lamp, and a clothes armoire. A water closet was off to the left, and through the open door she caught a glimpse of white tile and a porcelain sink. He did not seem to indulge in many personal luxuries, despite his station; the bed was covered with muslin sheets and a gray military blanket, and the nightstand was devoid of toiletries. A brush and comb were placed next to one another on its polished surface and that was all.

Becker turned her to face him, taking her chin in his hand. He bent and kissed her lightly, barely grazing her lips with his, and she caught the scent of his soap, plain and unperfumed. When he straightened she gazed up at him, waiting, and he smoothed the furrow between her brows with his forefinger.

“You’re frightened?” he asked, reading her expression.

“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes as he ran his fingers lightly over her face and then pressed his thumb into her lower lip. “But I’m a little... nervous.”

“There is no need.”

“I’ve never been with anyone but my husband, and that wasn’t...” She trailed off into silence, unwilling to complete the sentence.

“Don’t talk of it,” Becker said, bending to kiss her again. “Don’t think of it.” The last word was lost as his lips covered hers.

Lysette was only too happy to obey him.

His kiss was firm yet gentle, the way she had always dreamed of being kissed. She opened her mouth under his insistent pressure and heard the sound of satisfaction he made when his tongue found hers. Her hands clutched at his back as he pulled her against him. She felt the straining muscles under his coat, the hardening of his arousal.

He kissed her for a long time, letting her see that he wouldn’t rush her, until she could sense him aching for more intimate contact. He moved one hand to the back of her dress and let it rest there, seeing if she would hesitate. When she yielded, he undid the fastenings swiftly and let the shift fall to the floor.
 

Underneath it she was wearing a plain white batiste slip with a line of cotton lace at the bodice and along the hem. Her breasts were small, perfectly shaped, the nipples erect against their thin cloth covering.

 
He put one arm around her waist and drew her close, bending and putting his mouth to her breast, searing her as if she were wearing nothing. She gasped, then sighed, sinking her fingers into the hair at the back of his head and holding him against her. They were frozen for a timeless moment, then he slipped his arm beneath her knees and carried her to his bed.

Becker set her on the edge of it and pulled the slip over her head. Lysette looked down and folded her arms across her naked breasts.

“Turn off the light,” she whispered.

He studied her expression, then knelt before her and touched her arm. She was trembling.

“Look at me,” he said.

She obeyed.

 
“If you’ve changed your mind...” he began quietly.

She held his gaze. “No. I want to be with you. But I’m...shy.”

He turned and snapped off the reading lamp, leaving them in darkness except for the faint light from the bathroom.