The Moonlight Mistress (4 page)

LUCILLA WOKE WHEN PINK LIGHT BEAMED THROUGH the window. She was pinned beneath Pascal’s arm and one of his legs, her nose shoved into his shoulder. She’d had barely any sleep and had gotten quite a bit of unexpected exercise. Also, she was trapped in a country at war, with no easy way home. She felt better than she had in weeks. There was something to be said for meeting the body’s animal needs, when one wasn’t bound up with romance and love and guilt. And when the man one chose paid attention to her needs as well as his own.

Pascal snored very lightly. She drew one finger along the prominent bridge of his nose. He ought to have been producing quite a bit more sound, she thought, and smiled. She hadn’t expected to like him at all after their first meeting. Perhaps he’d blurred her mind with orgasms, because she felt deeply fond of him now, mixed with tender exasperation because she was awake and he was not.

She wanted to kiss him awake and entice him into one
more coupling, one last time before they left this temporary haven. She was apparently more of a sensual being than she’d thought. After so many years with no sexual contact at all, once she’d had a taste of how good it could be, she wanted more and more. Perhaps she would become depraved and have to be analyzed. She grinned, then her grin faded. They had no more time for indulgence. She had better accept that their idyll had ended.

Outside, wagons rattled along the street. She couldn’t hear any movement within the hotel, at least not in their corridor. They both needed another bath before they set out. Reluctantly, she set to waking Pascal.

An hour later, the sun was fully up, and she was struggling back into her walking suit from the day before. She was cleaner than the suit, but she had washed her underthings, and they had dried overnight, or mostly dried in the case of her bust bodice. Pascal cautiously slipped into a clean shirt; his entire forearm had turned black with bruising overnight. He was lucky he hadn’t fractured the bone.

“Let me help you,” she said.

Pascal swore. Lucilla ignored this and buttoned the shirt for him. “The aspirin will help. Give it time.”

He murmured a foul word in French and reached for his jacket, a clean and undamaged one he’d extracted from the steamer trunk. “Can you drive a motorcar?”

“Luckily for both of us, yes.”

A slow smile stole across his face. “You are a paragon among women.”

Lucilla patted his shoulder and handed him his hat. “Where does Herr Kauz live? In the town, I hope.”

“It’s not far.”

Pascal carried the pistol in his jacket pocket, his uninjured hand tucked in on top of it. She’d suggested a sling for his other arm but he’d said it would be too conspicuous. He’d abandoned his trunk and stuffed a few items into his rucksack. Lucilla carried her carpetbag, with his rucksack slung over her back. Herr Kauz lived only two streets over from the Institute, in a brick house that looked far more pleasant than its owner, with fat red flowers growing in pots to either side of the front door. A plump woman in a servant’s uniform pinned wet trousers to a line in the side garden. Lucilla could see the motor, an open two-seater model, parked just beyond.

“Wait here,” Pascal said, stopping in the shade of an elm. It overhung the corner of a neighboring house’s front garden, and would provide good concealment.

Lucilla desperately wanted to go with him, not because she felt it wise, but because she felt more exposed standing in the street than she had the night before in their bed. She set her carpetbag on the grass and crossed her arms, to prevent herself from reaching for him. She was a middle-aged woman who had traveled to a foreign country to perform research, not a green girl who couldn’t let her lover out of her sight. “Go,” she said.

She watched as Pascal strode off down the street. He followed a neat brick path to Kauz’s door and rapped the knocker. She could not see who answered, but he was admitted. She bent and fiddled with the hooks on her shoes, feeling excessively visible again. She was sure many pairs of eyes burned through her back and could sense lace curtains being twitched aside all along the street.

She amused herself by imagining explanations for her presence. She was Pascal’s mother, and he the illegitimate son of Kauz. She was a spy. She had been sent by the German
government to check their readiness to deal with foreign spies. She was selling scientific glassware, door to door. She watched Kauz’s housekeeper finish with the laundry, pick up a basket and go inside by a rear door, letting it slam behind her. Lucilla stared at the motor, thinking.

Pascal emerged. He did not turn toward the side garden, but walked quickly toward her, his shoulders rigid. He ducked behind the tree’s trunk and swore.

“Stay calm,” Lucilla said. She picked up her bag and handed him his rucksack. “The servant went inside. We’ll walk to the motor now. There’s no crank, it must have a self-starter.”

“He refused.”

“Then we commandeer his vehicle. Isn’t that the word? You know how to start the engine, don’t you? I can do it if you don’t know how.”

Pascal only hesitated a moment before seizing her arm and walking back toward Kauz’s home.

“Not too quickly,” Lucilla murmured. “We must behave as if we have every right.”

“He will hear the engine.”

“There’s a clear path from his garden to the street. We must be quick. Do you know where he is in the house?”

“He returned to his library.”

Laughter gurgled in the upper region of Lucilla’s chest as she ducked beneath damp shirttails fluttering in the summer breeze. Pascal pushed his way through a sheet. She would never have dared this on her own, would never have entertained such desperate measures had the night not changed her entire idea of herself. She would never have imagined that stealing a motor could be such a thrill.

She laid her carpetbag gently in the rumble seat, took
Pascal’s rucksack and laid it in, as well. Pascal quietly opened the door; he fiddled with the spark and throttle levers while she arranged herself to block him from view and kept a wary eye out. He looked at her beneath his arm. “When the engine catches, be ready. You must drive.”

Lucilla nodded and gathered her skirts into her hands. The engine roared and Pascal threw himself onto the seat, sliding across. She followed, remembering to release the hand brake before she slammed the door and sent the motor into high gear. She hadn’t driven in over a year. “It’s like cycling,” she said to herself, turning onto the street. Behind them, she heard banging doors and shouting. She gave the motor more petrol, and soon the shouting faded. It was satisfying to drive faster than Kauz could run. She hoped he’d seen her. He could add
thief
to
whore
, she thought with savage glee.

The Institute’s gates were still shut. As they neared the more populous areas of the town, she tried to look as if the motor belonged to her. Surely someone would recognize it. But if they did, they were too concerned with their own business to take note of who occupied the seat. They passed the train station’s brick facade. The shaded porch was even more crowded than the day before, and there was no sign of trains. She glanced at Pascal, who slouched in the seat next to her, cradling his arm. “Do you have a map?”

He shrugged. “In my head.”

They motored past the town’s medieval walls and were suddenly surrounded by countryside. The summery smell of grain blew in Lucilla’s face. She would have to see if Kauz kept goggles in the glove box. For now, her hat would have to serve as protection. “Can you get us to France?”

“If no one shoots us, and we do not run out of petrol.”

“I’d forgotten about petrol,” she admitted. “It’s a pity motors can’t eat grass.”

“Perhaps in the next town they will be willing to sell us some.”

“I’ll be helpless,” Lucilla decided. “My children are waiting for me.”

“You have children?” Pascal asked abruptly.

“Not a one, but I’ll pretend if necessary. You?”

“Of course not! I am not married.”

Lucilla laughed. Unless she had amnesia about the event, he was not married to her, but that had not stopped him from making love to her for most of the night.

He seemed to hear her thoughts. “That was different!”

Lucilla continued to laugh. He sounded younger with every protest. At last she said, “I’m laughing in relief, I think.”

“We aren’t safe yet.”

“We’ll proceed one step at a time,” she said, thinking of chemistry experiments.

“Perhaps if we run out of petrol, we can sell the motor and buy a cart,” he said.

“That’s a good plan.”

“I would sell this motor now for coffee and croissants.”

Lucilla’s stomach growled in agreement. “I forgot about that sort of fuel, too.”

“You were fed by criminal instinct,” Pascal suggested. She glanced at him, and he was grinning. “This could be easier if you stayed in France. With me.”

Excitement leaped in her chest. She took a deep breath. “In the middle of a war.”

“England will soon declare war. This may have happened already. We did not see the papers, as we did not have coffee and croissants.”

Her empty stomach fluttered, and she felt short of breath. “I have to go home. My brother, Crispin, is a reservist. He might be called up. If there’s fighting, they’ll need nurses.”

“You could nurse for France, if you desired. Or you could work as a chemist.”

“I’m sure France would look on that as kindly as England does,” she said. “I already don’t like being a foreigner alone among foreigners in a country at war, and that’s how it would be for me.” When he said nothing, she added, “If I don’t return now, I might not get the chance later. I don’t want to be away from my family in a crisis.”

“They cannot endure this crisis without you?”

“It’s not a matter of—think of sheep huddling together.”

“You are not a sheep. Not in the least.”

“I am also not young and idealistic, like you,” she said. “I would love to stay with you a bit longer, to see what might happen, but I can’t. I have to go home. I feel I owe a duty toward my country.” Also, she feared Pascal did not truly mean what he said, not deep in his heart. He might think he did, after their enjoyable sexual encounters, but she doubted he could have formed serious feelings for her in so short a time.

Pascal didn’t speak for several kilometers. At last he said, “There’s a sign. Perhaps we can find coffee in that town. That would immeasurably improve the quality of this day.”

As Lucilla had suspected, croissants were not on offer in the village of Grobschmiedensberg, but she was able to obtain sausages, cheese, fresh bread, a thermos of strong coffee, and bottled beer and lemonade for a reasonable sum. Two cans of petrol cost an exorbitant price, but she was glad for it, having no idea how much remained in the motor’s tank, and how much petrol would be required for the distance they must
travel. The hazards of being an auto thief, she supposed. Three kilometers down the road, she stopped the motor and they ate ravenously, in silence.

Lucilla offered the last of the coffee to Pascal. He shook his head, so she drank it herself and shook the drops into the road. “Will you tell me about Herr Kauz?”

“Why do you wish to know?” Pascal looked wary. Even earlier, in the midst of danger, she hadn’t seen that expression on his face.

“It’s a long way to the border.” He knew about her work—it was common knowledge that she experimented with pharmaceuticals to alleviate pain—but she knew little about his. Before she had to leave him, she wanted to know more of this man with whom she’d shared her body.

Pascal leaned over the seat back, rummaged in his rucksack one-handed, and emerged with a crumpled wax-paper packet. Lucilla tidied away the remains of their breakfast and tucked the brown paper parcels in among the beer and lemonade, so the bottles wouldn’t clink together. When she settled back in her seat, Pascal pressed a small piece of chocolate between her lips.

Sweetness blossomed on her tongue, mingling with the saltiness of his fingertips. She suckled the tip of his thumb, closed her eyes and swept out her tongue, caressing its length. He cursed softly and kissed her, crushing their hats together.

Desire drenched her entire body. For a few moments, she didn’t care that the motor sat beside an open field, many kilometers from safety. The sun heated her blood, and Pascal’s hand on her cheek was even hotter. She dislodged his hat and grabbed the back of his head, holding him to her with a desperation she’d buried until this moment.

He pulled his mouth away and thudded his forehead to hers. His breath puffed unsteadily against her face. “Pardon,” he said.

“Bugger,” Lucilla said. She loosened her hands in his hair and let them drift down to his shoulders, stroking him absently as she tried to bring herself under control instead of nuzzling into his chest and tasting him with lips and tongue. She pulled away and clenched her hands in her lap, staring down at her whitened knuckles. Her desires fought her, and she had a difficult time remembering why she could not set them free. “I will miss you when this is over.”

He reached for her again, then let his hand fall. “I will help you to get home,” he said. “I have cousins who work in Le Havre.”

“Thank you,” she said. For the first time in years, she wanted to weep.

“We should go,” he said.

Lucilla started the engine and released the hand brake. She concentrated on the road for several minutes, then said, “Tell me about Herr Kauz.”

The noise of the motor and the wind necessitated he face her as he spoke. Lucilla focused on the road ahead rather than risk glancing at him. What did she think she would see in his eyes, anyway? They were brown. That was all. Her own were the same, and just as subject to bits of blown grit. She had sand in her eyes now. Her own fault, because she had not looked for Kauz’s goggles. She blinked furiously.

Pascal said, “Kauz first wrote to me over a year ago.”

“Why?” She swallowed, and gave the motor a bit more petrol.

“Long before I was born, he was married to my great-aunt.”

In some families, like her own, a connection by marriage could be a close one, but Pascal’s tone said otherwise. Lucilla
looked away from the road for a moment, at Pascal. His expression was blank. She sensed some family trouble there. “You didn’t know him well.”