Risking It All (3 page)

“Charles was shot down at Biggin Hill four months ago.” He spoke in hard, unemotional sentences, then bowed his head so only his dark hair was visible.

She drew a sharp breath; his brother had been younger than her. This damn war. When would it end?

“Were you there?” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder.

He nodded, staring straight ahead. She’d seen too many crashes to fool herself over what must have happened. Billy had taken the broken body from the plane, or worse, watched in despair as the fuel tanks exploded, trapping Charles in a ball of burning flames.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, hating herself for sounding pitiful. But what else could she say? There were no words.

“He was due to get married in September. They gave me twenty-four hours leave to tell his fiancée. She cried for hours. I held her hand, made her tea, but there was nothing I could do to comfort her.”

It reminded Lynne of her mother, but she’d been married with a child. This other young girl had been left with nothing except heartbreak.

“I won’t date until the war is over,” Billy said. “I can’t do that to someone, my job is too dangerous.”

Lynne’s muscles tensed; he was telling her for a reason. “It’s the right thing to do,” she said.

Her father lay in a French field, killed in the Great War. Would Billy end up buried like so many men in a foreign grave far from home? He was young, but his shoulders slumped and head drooped. How could she help him? No words could give back what he’d lost. He didn’t want a relationship and neither did she, but they could comfort each other.

“Stay with me, Billy,” she said. “Just for tonight.”

“What?”

She’d shocked him, made herself sound easy. Should she explain she’d only slept with one man before? The relationship had soured because of Billy, trapped in her head like an unwanted spirit. If they made love, he would no longer be the mysterious unknown, a desire kept hidden.

Grasses rustled in the breeze and a trickle of sweat formed between her breasts. Faint music travelled from the mess hut. On the hill however, it was as if they were the only people in the world. Had she made a terrible mistake?

“Are you sure?” he said.

She nodded.

Twisting on his knees to face her, he slid his hand under her jaw, then pressed his mouth against hers, hot against her lips. Stubble brushed her cheek. His hand crept around the back of her head and with a tug, he removed her hat, pushing his hand into her hair, pulling out the pins so it fell loose down her back. He gathered it up in his hands and held it against his face.

“Lynne,” he whispered.

Her breathing quickened, driven by his tone, the love in his voice. Then he kissed her again, tracing his lips down her jawbone and neck. She closed her eyes as his mouth brushed against her skin like the fragile touch of a poppy flower, and shivered, breathing in his scent. It was hard to believe he was here beside her, wanting her. Then an aircraft hangar door slammed in the field below them and her throat tightened—tomorrow he would be back in his plane, bullets shooting through the clouds towards him.

Lynne looked up at him, and he smiled down, the small lines creasing in the corners of his blue eyes, which were the colour of a midday summer sky. Her gaze stared into his, her breathing quickening and a hot sensation aching between her legs as her feelings, kept back for so long, flooded her mind, leaving her desperate to feel his body against hers.

His jacket hung from his shoulders, half-unbuttoned over a white vest. As she slid her hands under the fabric, his upper arms lay smooth and warm beneath her palms and she paused to savour the sensation of his skin against hers. Unfastening the coat, she pushed it back, but the sleeves caught and he laughed as he stripped it off, the sound reminding her of happier, carefree days when she had gazed surreptitiously at him from the corner of her eye. Under the moonlight, his singlet glowed in sharp contrast to his suntanned arms, burnt from long hours in sun-filled airfields. He unfastened her RAF jacket, dropping it to the ground; underneath she wore a regulation shirt, hard against her skin, and she leant forward towards him, desperate for him to remove it, to feel his touch against her flesh.

His hands were warm as he undid the small buttons of her top and slipped it off her shoulders, unzipping her skirt and pushing it down. In her pale bra and pants, she looked down at the shadows playing over her body, deeper under her breasts, lighter on her stomach. Billy lifted her hair, sliding the soft strands through his fingers so they brushed her naked back. Lynne shivered and, winding her fingers into the cotton of his vest, she drew it up and over his head.

Muscles hardened from flying crossed his chest, soft hair led down his stomach and she traced it. A firm mouth caught her lips again and she raised her jaw to kiss him, a hot sensation between her legs, dampness. Drawing her hands down his chest again, his skin smooth and warmth, she touched the top of his trousers and he shuddered before reaching over to undo the catch on her bra. He moved behind her, palms sliding across her back and arms. He cupped her breasts, stroking the nipples with his fingers until she groaned.

This was nothing like what she’d done before. Her nerves tingled across her body, breath short as her chest tightened; he was at once familiar and a stranger to her. That Billy, whom she had known for so long, could be lying with her, stroking her; his eyes darkened and staring into hers with the expression of love she had always longed to see,

He touched her toes, stroking each one, before hooking his hands beneath her knees and drawing them up into a triangle, placing her feet flat on the ground. Gently, he pushed her legs apart, touching her inner thighs and brushing the cotton of her knickers.

Lynne shivered, but he held her firm. Hooking a finger under the cotton, he stroked her and with a moan, she wriggled. The fingers withdrew, leaving her squirming, desperate for their return, but instead he traced them, wet, down her legs before leaning down to kiss her thighs.

He sat up, a hand to his mouth.

Lynne remembered and laughed. “Gravy browning. I had a hole in my stockings.”

“You taste like a delicious roast dinner.”

Giggling, she put her hands on his zip. Through the material, she could feel him—hard—and he groaned as she undid his trousers. Billy pulled them off and lay against her, wearing his underpants, pressing against her most sensitive parts. She drew her hands down his back and over his buttocks, gripping him tight as his firm muscles tensed. She stroked her hands down to his bottom, fixing the feel of his skin in her mind. Looking into the darkening sky behind his shoulder, she closed her eyes. Tomorrow he would be back up there again, involved in the endless dog-fights, causing streams of white smoke and flashes of flames that she watched in horror from her window. Never would she get used to it; not when she heard the pilots’ voices in her headphones, pleading for help, or that terrible long scream. She clutched him tight, her nails digging into his flesh, and as he drew a sharp breath, she instantly released her grip.

Desperately, she pressed her mouth against his, exploring and tasting him, as he slid a finger into her knickers, drawing them down a few inches, before pressing against her hot flesh. Putting two fingers together, he eased them deep inside her and continued to kiss her lips. She groaned at the burning heat spreading over her thighs as his thumb circled her intimate centre, pressing firmly until she gasped.

He drew back and she raised herself on her elbows. Where was he? Then he returned, undressed completely, his erection pressing against her. She parted her legs and drew him on top, lifting her calves over his back to his waist, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, kissing the soft skin of his neck.

He whispered and although she couldn’t quite hear him, it sounded like, “I love you.” But before she could reply, he lifted his hips and pushed into her with one long, firm stroke. She gasped as he filled her completely, his mouth pressed to hers, tongue caressing her mouth. Tightening her legs, she drew him closer, meeting each stroke of his body as he stretched her. Waves of pleasure jolted from between her legs, sharp darts that pierced her hips and travelled up her body until she was soaked in sweat. He shuddered against her and, she moaned, as her body pulsed in rhythm with his.

A cool breeze brushed her naked body when he moved. He lay still, a hand in hers, breathing hard, staring at the sky. She gripped his fingers, throat tightening and eyes moistening as she gazed up too, unable to let him go.

“I won’t forget this,” he said.

She nodded, thankful he couldn’t see her tears, knowing that every time she caught the scent of summer poppies or saw the stars, she would be back on this hill. And for that short time, he would be hers again.

****

Blinking up at the morning sun, Billy moved his head on his rolled up jacket, breathing in the scent of Lynne’s bluebell perfume from the previous night. Someone retched and he glanced over. A new recruit stood doubled over in the grass beside the tent, clutching his stomach. Billy didn’t go over to help. Even an eighteen-year-old had pride.

Watching the youngster, he frowned. These young men deserved a chance of life; he needed to find out why the death rate was so high here. Before his shift started, he’d walked around the planes, checking the engines and watching them being refuelled. Nothing wrong there. The craft he flew yesterday responded well to the controls. The problem wasn’t the planes, but—he suspected—a delayed call to scramble. The enemy planes were in position before they got up to them, which could only be blamed on the control tower and the Head Radio Operator, Lynne.

He might have to report her for incompetence. It would destroy her to know she was responsible for so many deaths, but if she wasn’t up to the job, she’d have to be removed. Sighing, he punched his jacket with a fist. He never should have slept with her, but he’d been desperate to know how her skin felt to touch and her mouth to kiss; to forget about Charles.

The telephone rang and he tensed, but there was no cry to scramble and he relaxed, looking at the blue sky as crickets chirped in the long grass. A white cloud drifted across the sun, dimming the heat on his bare arms. Shielding his eyes, he squinted up—soon he would see the shapes of planes, hear the rumble of engines. Smoke, black and deadly, would streak across the sky and bombs would explode in flashes of yellow fire, triggering violent eruptions of hot mud and brick. How many more sorties until a bullet hit him? How much longer could they fight to protect the beautiful land that was their home?

“Cigarette, Billy?”

He jumped. Arthur stood beside him, face pale and eyes rimmed with red, a look he recognised from his shaving mirror.

“Thanks.” He took the cigarette and reached to borrow the lighter. He rarely smoked, but today needed the distraction.

“Glamour pants on her way,” Arthur said. “If she’s the last thing I see, I’ll die a happy man.”

Billy sat up. Mounted on a bike, RAF skirt pushed high to show long slender legs, Lynne cycled along the airfield path. A white letter poked out of her basket and a military hat covered her hair. Arthur whistled and Billy cursed, not wanting her to think he flirted with passing girls. She halted the machine a few feet away and he was sure her cheeks flushed, but it could have been from cycling.

“Hello,” she said.

“Off duty?” Billy said. He’d be sorry to go up into the air without her calm voice speaking in his headphones.

“Until lunch time. I’m posting a letter to Mother.”

“What time do you finish tonight?”

“Late, and I’ll be tired.”

He frowned. She glanced away and a pain clenched in his chest. She said last night was a one off, but he hadn’t actually believed her. Was it a common habit of hers? How many other pilots had she comforted?

“How does it look in the skies today?” Arthur said.

“Not too bad. Duxford’s been hit and Biggin Hill...” She stopped.

Billy glanced away; even the name hurt.

“I’m going to fetch my jacket,” Arthur said, and strode off.

“I must go,” Lynne put her foot on her pedal.

“Do you remember last night?” Billy said.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why act so cold?”

“I have to go.”

“Don’t avoid the question. Last night you lay in my arms, but this morning you ignore me. We agreed not to have a relationship, but it doesn’t mean you can treat me like a stranger.”

Lynne looked at the gleaming Spitfires on the runaway.

“I’m afraid,” she said. “I count the planes out and count them back home, and my two tallies never match. The men talk to me as they collect their orders, young men—boys some of them. I watch them fly off, knowing they won’t all return.” She stared at him, her mouth set. “I keep my distance to retain my sanity. I have a job to do, a vital one, and if I make a mistake then more telegrams will be sent home. I talk to you over the radio, I control your plane from the ground. I have to be independent. I can’t feel any more for you than I do for any other pilot.”

“Is this revenge because I treated you badly before?”

“No.” She spat out the words. “Do you think I’m that shallow? When I know the job you do? The risks you take?”

A telephone rang and he glared at the tent, muscles tensing. Not now!

“Scramble, scramble!” a male voice shouted.

He leapt to his feet and grabbed his jacket from the floor, taking two steps towards the waiting planes. Where was Lynne? The enemy planes would aim for the airfield. She stood clutching the handlebars of her bike, face pale.

“Go to the shelter!” he said.

She shook her head and pointed to his plane. “Go, don’t worry about me.”

“Jenkins! Get a move on!” the Squadron Leader shouted.

It was his job and it came first, even before her. Glancing back over his shoulder one last time, he raced towards the planes, ground shaking beneath his feet from the roaring engines. Grabbing his parachute from the wing, he dropped into the cockpit and pushed the throttle, taxiing across the runway, coughing from the smoke. But for the first time, his mind wasn’t on the planes in the sky above, it was with a girl on a bike, wearing RAF blue. Was she in the shelter?