Never Forget Me
AS WAR BLAZES ACROSS EUROPE, THREE COUPLES FIND A LOVE THAT IS POWERFUL ENOUGH TO OVERCOME ALL THE ODDS…
A KISS GOODBYE
1914
As war looms, genteel Flora yearns to be more than just an observer. She finds a revolutionary kindred spirit in soldier Geraint—but will their fragile love be crushed before it can start to bloom?
DEAREST SYLVIE
1916
Soldier Robbie cannot forget his one hedonistic night in Paris with beautiful waitress Sylvie. But as Europe burns, can these two star-crossed lovers ever be reunited?
FOREVER WITH ME
1918
Nurse Sheila is horrified to discover her new boss is the French surgeon she woke beside after Armistice Day! Fighting for their love will be the bravest thing she’s ever had to do….
“If we are not enemies, but we are not on the same side, then where on earth are we?”
“I’ll tell you where we are, we’re in no-man’s-land.”
“No-man’s-land,” Flora repeated. “Our own private land.”
“For the time being.”
No-man’s-land. A place where only one man existed, she thought. A man whose eyes glittered darkly down at her, mesmerizing beneath the thick curtain of his lashes. A man who, by his own admission, confided in no one, yet had confided in her. A dangerous man. A lonely man. A challenging man. And a very enticing one. “I think I like no-man’s-land,” Flora said.
“So do I,” Geraint said softly, closing the space between them. He slid his arm around her waist. His fingers were delicate on her jaw, her cheek, making her catch her breath in anticipation, making her tremble, scattering her inhibitions to the four winds.
Her body was pliant, melding itself to his hardness as she reached up to put her arms around his neck. As his lips touched hers, her eyelids closed. His tongue ran along the soft skin on the inside of her lower lip, and she shivered at the shocking intimacy of it. It was like the first sip of a fine French cognac. Warmth flooded her.
* * *
Never Forget Me
Harlequin® Historical #1198—August 2014
Praise for
Marguerite Kaye:
“The dark undertones and the prospect of redemption will have readers enthralled as Kaye’s characters move toward a fuller understanding of their emotional needs, their passions and the power of love.”
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Rumors that Ruined a Lady
“Kaye has another winner on her hands, with an original plot, lots of sizzling passion and enough nail-biting action to satisfy every fan.”
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RT Book Reviews
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Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah
“An outstanding storyteller who takes chances, pushes the envelope and delivers time and time again, Marguerite Kaye continues to prove to be one of the most exciting and innovative voices of historical romantic fiction!”
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CataRomance
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How to Seduce a Sheikh
“Sensual, ravishing and funny. A must for all lovers of sheikh romance.”
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The Governess and the Sheikh
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Never Forget Me
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Author Note
War, conflict and the impact it has not just on those who fought, but on those left behind, have been recurrent themes in my books. While the First World War has long been a subject which I found compelling, I’ve always shied away from it as the backdrop to romance. The sheer scale of the suffering, death and destruction seemed prohibitive, and the war itself is still very much present in the memories of the families of those who fought in it.
With the centenary of the start of the “war to end all wars” coming around though, I began to seriously rethink my stance. Between 1914 and 1918, the world, or at least the world of those countries involved in the conflict, really did change utterly, and it wasn’t all negative. Out of such suffering, those who fought and those who lost loved ones were determined some good must come—not just the long-term peace that the League of Nations was established to protect, but “good” for the individual. And it did. Of course, there were other influences and dynamics of change that were in train before the war, but no one can deny (though no doubt someone will now!) that the war gave women’s liberation a kick start, not only in enfranchising them, but in getting them out of the home and into the workplace, and in Britain making a start on sexual discrimination by allowing them into the legal profession and the higher echelons of the civil service. A maximum working day (and week) and a stronger trade union movement were just some of the measures that protected workers.
I could go on, but this isn’t a history lesson. What I’m trying to say is, the idea of somehow showing the impact of these huge changes on my characters really appealed to me. But how to do this, and at the same time capture the essence of the war? I decided that rather than pick one key moment in the conflict, I would write three different stories set at the beginning, the middle and the end. Building on my experience from working on the Castonbury Park series, I’d have some continuity characters who would act as landmarks for the changes, and so I came up with the idea of having a house and a family central to all three stories, who would then represent the shift from the old world to the new.
All very well, but finding a way of setting not one but three romances against a backdrop of war without shying away from the reality was a tough one. What I hope runs through all the stories is the triumph of the human spirit, and the power of love.
My own spirit, I must admit, was at times crushed by this book. Thanks once again to my Facebook and Twitter friends for all their help and encouragement. You kept me going, and you fed me ideas—having letters form a key part of my second story is just one of them. Many thanks to Alice, who shared the amazing story of her grandfather’s war and allowed me to borrow his surname for one of my heroes. And finally, a huge big thank-you to Linda F. at Harlequin Mills & Boon for taking a chance on this book, and as ever to my wonderful editor Flo, who hauled me out of the mire that my third story had become entangled in.
This has been by far the most challenging book I’ve written, but because of that it’s also been the most rewarding. I truly hope you find it as rewarding to read.
Table of Contents
A Kiss Goodbye
Contents
Chapter One
Argyll, Scotland—October 1914
C
orporal Geraint Cassell, late of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers and currently seconded to the Army Service Corps, gazed out of the window as the staff car swept up the impressive driveway. There was something about the quality of light, the way it filtered through the battleship-grey clouds, casting a soft haze over everything, that made him think of home. The picturesque villages they had skirted on the journey north, though, looked nothing like the gritty Welsh mining village in which he had been raised, where the narrow houses huddled into the valley, their tiny windows looking blindly out onto the road, which rose steeply towards the pit head and the winding wheel that dominated the skyline. In contrast, the whitewashed Highland cottages seemed like something out of a child’s fairy tale.
Private Jamieson pulled the car to a halt in front of Glen Massan House. Geraint surveyed the place with a jaundiced eye. It was more like a castle than a house. Built in the Scots’ baronial style, he had gleaned from the requisition orders, it sat on a promontory with a commanding view over Loch Massan. A large tower five stories high with crenellated battlements bolstered one side of the grey granite building, while the main body of the house, with its steep-pitched roofs and its plethora of smaller, conical towers, seemed to have been added higgledy-piggledy. The result was strangely attractive. It was easy to imagine generations of Carmichael lairds striding out from that massive portico in their plaids, hounds yelping at their heels, to go off on a stag hunt or whatever it was that Scottish lairds did.
Generations of crofters and serfs had no doubt dutifully served their lord and master here, working the land for a pittance and shivering in their thatched cottages, Geraint reminded himself. Whatever this war brought, one thing was certain, it was the end of the line for people like Lord Carmichael and his privileged family.
The war would see the end of the line, too, with a bit of luck, for the ‘Old Contemptibles’ like Colonel Aitchison, whose ilk were bumbling about with General French over on the Western Front. Geraint belatedly turned and saluted as his so-called superior officer finally stumbled out of the staff car juggling gloves, hat and swagger stick. No doubt the Carmichaels of Glen Massan House would resent being evicted from their pretty Highland castle, but Geraint refused to feel sorry for them.
* * *
‘I simply can’t comprehend why the army wants our home. Why Glen Massan?’
The question was rhetorical, though Lady Elizabeth Carmichael had asked it repeatedly since the requisition order had arrived. Her daughter, Flora, looked up from the newspaper in which she had been reading the first encouraging reports of the battle being waged at Ypres. ‘Perhaps it really will be over by Christmas,’ she said, ‘in which case, we will only have to decamp to the Lodge for a few months.’
‘A few months! The place is tiny. There are only three bedrooms.’
‘Then Robbie will have to bunk with Alex the next time he comes up from London,’ Lord Carmichael said patiently.
‘But that means you and I will have to share a bedroom.’
‘We
are
married, Elizabeth, and there
is
a war on, in case either fact had escaped your attention. It is up to all of us to make sacrifices.’
Lady Carmichael took a sip of tea. ‘Do you really think it will be over by Christmas as they say?’ she asked her daughter.
Flora’s opinion was so rarely consulted that for a moment she was quite taken aback. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered simply. ‘If the newspapers are to be believed...’ She halted mid-sentence, because the growing casualty lists and the claims of imminent victory seemed to her at odds. The reports in the papers were unrelentingly cheerful, full of praise for the bravery of the men who went ‘over the top’. At times, they made life in the trenches sound like some sort of Boy Scout camp. In the first weeks, Flora had been as enthusiastic as everyone else, but now that men from both sides were dying in unimaginable numbers, she was beginning to have the most unpatriotic doubts about the ability of those in charge to do their job.