Drawing Blood (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Abigail

She fried her last four eggs, heated the Boulanger’s rolls in the stove, and boiled water for more coffee. It was nice to have someone else to focus on. She would never eat this much, but if there’s one thing she learned from James it was that men could eat until there was nothing left. She arranged two small plates each with a couple eggs, rolls already buttered, cutlery, salt and pepper. She wished she had some ham, but there hadn’t been ham in this house for months.

It was the best she could do, but it didn’t feel like enough.

As she carried the tray up the stairs she heard laughter rumbling from behind the door. Good, red-blooded male laughter, two lads having a chuckle. She had to pause a moment, waiting for it to pass. She liked that sound very much.

They were enjoying their coffee as she slid the tray on to the nightstand, turning off the lamp and moving it to the floor. The patient smiled at her shyly, eyeing the tray. “Good god that smells fantastic.”

“Sorry I can’t offer more,” she said, putting a roll on a plate and handing it to him. “But the neighbours just brought these rolls yesterday, made fresh.”

She then handed Elliot a plate. “Sleep after you’ve had something to eat,” she instructed. He nodded, taking the offering eagerly. “I’m truly sorry there’s not more. What you both really need is meat.”

Elliot started chewing a roll, then stopped. “You only had four eggs in your fridge,” he said, looking up at her, swallowing.

“Eat it. I can get more.”

David had stopped eating, too. “We can’t eat all your food,” he said, trying to keep everything in his mouth.

“It’s mine to give away. Now eat it … or I’ll shoot the both of you.”

The both stared at her, eyes wide.

“Now finish that. I’ll try to find something better for supper.”

She moved on to the bathroom, expecting to have a mess to clean up, but there wasn’t one. Even the towels on the rack were new, damp ones drying slung over the tub’s edge, along with men’s clothes. This time when she went down to the kitchen she realized all the tools she’d used last night had been cleaned off, the needle and thread on the table, the tea cup back in the cupboard. He’d even rinsed out the wash tub after doing their laundry. Mrs. Murphy had trained him quite well. She took a sip from the cup of coffee she’d kept for herself and washed out the frying pan.

In her shelter she discovered there was only one can of stew left. Peas and corn were a different story. One can of stew for two grown men.

She pulled a small bag of flour off the shelf and carried it upstairs. Flour could make for a great trade, assuming someone out there had more meat than they needed. Abigail peeked through the kitchen curtains. No one was stirring outside yet; it was still too early. She went to the cellar, pulled a few potatoes and carrots from the pile she started yesterday, putting them in a bowl on the counter. There was a ham bone in the ice box from the previous Easter. It still smelled fine, so she started it boiling on the stove in some water right away. As she was washing the potatoes and carrots Elliot came in to the kitchen with the tray and empty plates. He started washing the dishes once she had the potatoes done and she tried to stop him.

“You’re probably okay to rest now, so go to sleep,” she scolded.

“My mother would never forgive me if I didn’t wash up after all you’ve done for us,” he replied, nudging her away from the sink with a hand on her hip. That brief contact felt like a shot of lighting. She jumped, and so did he, likely from her reaction.

Abigail didn’t know if it was fear that made her do that; fear of Bossong or men in general. Or something else.

His eyes were on hers, looking for how he’d offended her, and she found she couldn’t meet them. As tall as he was, those pale blue-green eyes seemed to be right in front of her. His red-gold eye lashes were nicely curled; the kind that women would love to have.  The stubble on his jaw was the same colour. Abigail could just make out the pale freckles across his nose.

She was staring. She cleared her throat and looked away, and he started washing the plates. She took them as he finished each one, drying them and putting them back in the cupboard.

This is that comfort thing again
, she warned herself.
Just when you feel safe, who knows what will happen, and it’ll be worse because you weren’t expecting it.

The kitchen was silent as they washed, dried and stored the few dishes they’d used. Then he also helped her scrub the carrots clean, not saying a word.
This is what it would be like to just be married under normal circumstances,
she told herself, taking the bowl of clean vegetables from him and putting them on the table while he wiped down the counter and stove top.
Like we do this every morning.

“I am going to go see if I can find any meat,” she said, taking off her apron and hanging it from the hook by the door. “Just … stay out of sight. I’ll go see if anyone has heard anything about the rest of your company, too. Maybe … maybe something’s changed.”

He wrung out the cloth, draping it over the tap just like she would have done. He rested one hand on the counter, the other on his hip as he faced her.

“We’ll be here. Nowhere else to go.” He gave that wonderfully crooked smile. Her breath caught and she had to look away. This comfortable feeling was becoming uncomfortable. “Do people usually just walk into the house?”

“No, they knock first. I’ve only had the back door kicked in twice, but for the most part I have guests not intruders.”

“Would it be all right if I slept down here in that room?” He motioned to the front of the house.

She nodded. “Sure. The blinds are drawn, keep them that way and it should be fine.”

As she carried the flour to the kitchen door he called after her, “Be careful, Abigail.”

Strange how his concern made her feel light of foot again.

For convenience sake she headed to the Petit’s homestead, the next house west up the road. It was muggy out, and that likely meant more rain. She pulled her sweater around herself tighter as she climbed their porch steps and took a deep breath at their door. She hadn’t gone begging for food once in the last four years. And now that it looked like the end was approaching, here she was asking for meat.

The younger one’s lost a lot of blood
, she reminded herself.
He needs protein and iron.

That made her knock on the door. Madeline Petit answered herself, smiling broadly.

Abigail hated every word that came out of her mouth, but she said it anyway. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was wondering if … well, if you had any meat to spare. I hate to ask it but I’ve run out and the last couple days I’ve felt so dizzy.” It all came tumbling out and she still felt terrible saying it. “I have flour, and I know you’ve got a garden but I can trade potatoes and carrots, too.”

Madeline Petit was smiling at her. Abigail wondered if she’d forgotten something important; like the fact that the older woman didn’t speak English.

“Come in,” she said after a moment.

Abigail stepped inside, the smell of baking wrapping around her. There was bread on the kitchen counter. A pie on the window sill.

Apparently Abigail’s father wasn’t the only one stockpiling oil, lard, flour and sugar.

Something had changed in the night, outside the walls of her little house. The world felt very different. And a few items of baking proved it somehow.

“
De poulet ou de chevreuil?
” Madeline was asking as she came back to the door.

A choice? This was so strange. “Umm … I’ll take some deer. Might as well go for red meat.” She held out the sack of flour, and Madeline shook her head.

“
Non
,” she said, smiling pleasantly.

“Please, I can’t just take it.”

“Have you heard about the Canadians?”

Abigail stopped mid-argument. “The … the Canadians?”

“That fighting the other night. East of here? It was the Canadian Army. They are moving on Calais, and there are reports of a few Germans already fleeing the city. So watch out for German deserters. And …” she leaned forward in the manner of a conspirator, lowering her voice. “… some of the Canadians told the Resistance they’re missing two men: a lieutenant and a solider. Their bodies weren’t in the woods and they don’t think the Germans had been able to take prisoners. So … if you see two Canadian soldiers, tell them thank you. And make sure to share the venison, yes?”

Then she shut her door.

Abigail was stunned. She had no idea what that last statement meant. It was so ambiguous. She took the wrapped meat, cold in her hand, and carried it back with her to the house. Did Madeline mean everyone knew where they were? Or was it a crazy guess? If the Petits did know, she trusted them to keep it secret. That trust came from somewhere that was remaining a mystery for the time being.

Chapter Twenty-Six

David

He didn’t know why he woke.  Suddenly he was shaking and gasping, thrashing around, aware that he was in a bed. He tried to steady his breathing while staring at the ceiling and the light fixture that hung in the centre of it. His body was clammy. His heart raced and every breath burned.

Panic, he realized. He was terrified.

David tilted his head back to find the window over the headboard, and he saw a blue sky with sunshine. How could anything be scary if the sun was shining?

He rubbed his hand down his face, and it came away damp. He was losing it.

You know where you are. This is … France. You’re in France, in an English woman’s house. She fixed your leg. Remember?

He didn’t even know if the voice in his head could be trusted. He pulled the blanket off, comforted as the cooler air rushed in over him. He pulled back the robe, rising up on to his elbows to see his leg, to see if it actually happened.

The stitches were there, just like that ragged tear that they were holding closed. He gave a gasp of relief, resting his head back on the pillows. It was real, that part was real. The dream wasn’t. And what was more: he couldn’t remember the dream anyway.

He felt like weeping. Jesus … why was his mind racing in these ridiculous directions?

David closed his eyes, breathing in, then out … in, then out …

His pulse eased closer to normal, and when he opened his eyes again the room was less intense. It was just a room. One that he’d seen before, no one had moved him while he slept.

The door opened suddenly, and David gave a slight sound of alarm, pulling the blankets back over himself, but Abigail saw him anyway, quickly turning her back.

“I’m so sorry … I heard noises.”

He felt blood rushing to his face. She said she’d seen naked men before but still … Jesus, he was actually embarrassed.

“It’s fine. I’m sorry, I had a nightmare. I was sweating.” She stayed where she was and he realized she was waiting for him to give the all-clear. “I’m decent. You can turn around.”

When she did he saw that she had a cloth in one hand. He also had to note that her cheeks were pink, too. She wouldn’t meet his eyes as she crossed the floor to the bedside.

He groaned inwardly. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable in her own home.

As Abigail approached he realized she looked different. Her hair was soft and fell in soft waves to her shoulders. She had some lip colour on. And her dress was very pretty. She looked lovely.

“I brought this for your head.” The cloth was cool and damp as she pressed it to his skin. “I thought you might be having a nightmare.”

He sighed, letting his eyes slide closed. “That feels heavenly. Thank you.”

The room was so quiet. When was the last time he’d been covered with complete peace like this? It was like sliding in to a pair of comfortable shoes. Damn, it felt wonderful.

The bed sank down next to him, and his eyes snapped open in surprise. Abigail was leaning over him, her face full of concern as she dabbed at his forehead with the cloth. Her lips were so red, almost swollen. They were gorgeous. He wondered if they tasted as good as they looked.

She smiled at him like she was reading his thoughts. He felt his body stir at that look, and that’s when he knew this wasn’t real. It was still the dream. But it was sure getting better …

Her pale hand pulled the cloth away from his head, running it down his face, taking extra time to pull it downward along the centre of his lips before resting on the centre of his chest. Her leg was over his, the weight of it so real he was hard as a rod as soon as he realized it was there. Her chest pressed on his arm softly, pinning it at his side, moving with her breathing, but it was her expression he was riveted on. Her eyes were touching on all parts of his face, and he was dying inside every second she didn’t kiss him.

She leaned forward, breasts pressing tighter, and brushed her lips across his, just like Daphne used to do. His eyes fluttered shut, waiting. She did it again, then again. He used his far arm to slide around the back of her neck, keeping her in place while he pressed his mouth on hers forcefully, sliding his tongue in to her mouth. She moaned. He echoed it. She tasted like toast and strawberry jam. Her tongue stroked at his with a delicious rhythm, and he lost himself in it, following her lead. David even found he was moving his hips slightly, his body wanting to be inside her as his tongue was.

He lost her for a moment when she pulled away quickly, but she was pushing at the sheets and blankets, then at the robe, uncovering him. He wasn’t really embarrassed anymore, and neither was she. She moved down the bed, taking him in to her mouth.

He cried out, knowing he couldn’t last long like that. He didn’t care. It was just a dream.

When the orgasm hit he thought he might have lost consciousness. His head swam, and his body eased like he’d been carrying all the tension of the world and it was suddenly just gone.

His blinked his eyes open, his breathing ragged now for a very different reason. “Holy shit,” he whispered, realizing that he was covered. He had a withering erection in one hand.

You jerked off during your dream. Classy.

He could feel the mess he’d made on his stomach and felt terrible. He was wearing Abigail’s robe, after all. He felt about as dirty as … Well, a pervert.

He made to sit up, then jerked suddenly, shocked as the damp cloth fell from his forehead. He got a double-jolt as he realized Abigail was in the chair next to the bed.

What the –

There was no word to adequately describe his relief when he realized she was sleeping.
Holy shit. You thought you were lucky to still be alive? This goes beyond luck.

David did everything humanly possible not to make a sound as he got to his feet, then hobbled to the door and down the hall to the bathroom. He relieved himself, flushed the john, and did his best to clean himself up in the sink. He also checked the bullet hole in the mirror. It looked good, or so he thought. He wasn’t a doctor. The leg though, he knew that was serious.

So Abigail did bring that rag in for my head,
he deducted.
Which means the whole walking in and seeing you flashing all God gave you was real. Fantastic.

He was blushing again as he limped back to the bedroom, flopping on to the bed so he didn’t have to bend his leg. That’s when Abigail woke up.

He was arranging the sheet around himself as she rubbed her eyes. “I must’ve fallen asleep,” she said, covering her mouth as she yawned.

David was smiling at her like a mook, thinking to himself that her yawn was absolutely charming. “You had a rough night.”

She smiled and rubbed her eyes. “Are you feeling better?”

He nodded. “Very much so. And I have you to thank …” David told his inner monologue to shut up.

“You keep resting.”

He nodded, relieved when she shut the door behind her and her footsteps sounded on the stairs. He rubbed his face again, very aware of how blissful his body felt. Even if it did make him feel like a dirty bastard … he couldn’t deny that everything else felt absolutely fantastic.