Never Leave Me (28 page)

He held her securely, sliding one hand up the length of her spine, and into her hair, cradling the nape of her neck, raising her face to his. She shivered, an impulse of sensuality flaring through her as slowly, purposefully, he lowered his head to hers.

There was one flash of doubt, a surge of guilt that nearly overwhelmed her, and then her body yielded against the hard sureness of his, her arms went up and around his neck, and her mouth parted willingly beneath his, warm and sweet.

He was shocked at the fierceness of his response to her. He wanted to feel her flesh naked against him: the upthrust of her nipples in the palms of his hands, her hips grinding in passionate movement against his. The rose garden was deserted. All he had to do was ease her down beneath him, to unbutton her blouse, push her skirt high … He knew if he did she would be lost to him forever. He had sensed her momentary doubt. She still loved Brandon. She had told him so when she had told him she needed time to learn to love someone else. If he went too far, too fast, too clumsily, he would frighten her away forever. She wasn't hungry for him yet as he was for her. He raised his head from hers, his eyes gleaming. She would be though, given time. She would learn to love him under the very best possible conditions. As his wife.

‘In forty-eight hours I shall be leaving Normandy and moving towards Paris,' he said, still holding her close. ‘I want you to marry me before I go.'

The soft curve of her brows rose in disbelief and then her lips curved into a smile. ‘That isn't possible. In France, weddings take time. There has to be a civil ceremony as well. Permission has to be granted. Banns have to be called …'

He hooked a finger under her chin, tilting the exquisite triangle of her face towards his. ‘I've already taken the liberty of obtaining permission, and Sainte-Marie's mayor is only top happy for the civil ceremony to take place without delay. The priest was very understanding about the banns. He's waiting to speak to you now. He's with your father, marking in the new lines of Allied control on a map of France.'

‘I don't believe you!' Beneath the thick sweep of her lashes her eyes were incredulous.

He grinned. ‘You'd better,' he said, circling her waist with his arm, beginning to lead her back towards the courtyard and the stables. ‘Father Laffort is expecting to speak to a blushing bride-to-be.'

‘But how could you possibly have known that I would say yes?' she asked, full of laughter. ‘You hadn't even asked me!'

He took her shoulders, swinging her round to face him. ‘I'm asking you now,' he said. ‘Will you marry me?'

As if to compensate for the flowers that had burned and died, those that had survived had bloomed with ferocious splendour. Their scent hung heavy in the afternoon sunlight. Bees droned slumberously. In the far distance she could hear the faint surge of the sea. Time spun out in a long, fragile moment.

She lifted her face to his, the dark fall of her hair shimmering glossily.

‘Yes,' she said, dizzy with recklessness as he exuberantly circled her waist with his hands, lifting her off her feet and swinging her round with a whoop of triumph.

When they walked into Henri de Valmy's makeshift sitting room above the stable, he stared at them in astonishment. Lisette's hand was held firmly in the American's, her eyes warm with an expression of happiness he had thought he would never see there again.

‘I'm going to marry Colonel Dering, Papa.'

Henri rose dazedly to his feet, leaving Father Laffort still sitting at the table with its large-scale map of France. ‘So he told me when he arrived,
ma chére.
But I must confess that I thought he had made a mistake …'

The tall, toughly built American at his daughter's side grinned. ‘It's not a mistake, sir. With your permission we'd like to be married now, before I move on towards Paris.'

‘But the paperwork …' Henri protested faintly.

‘I have my birth certificate, my medical card and my permission to marry from my commanding officer,' Greg said, taking a wallet out of the inner pocket of his combat jacket. ‘Father Laffort has no objections. He's happy to marry us right away if that is agreeable to you, sir.'

Henri turned to Lisette. ‘Is that what you want,
ma chére
? Are you sure?'

She stepped towards him and took his hands. ‘Yes, Papa, I'm sure.'

Henri lowered his voice discreetly. ‘And does the Colonel know about …' he cleared his throat, leaving Dieter's name unspoken. Father Laffort's ears were sharp.

She nodded, ‘Yes, Luke told him.'

Some of Henri's tension eased. If the American knew about Dieter Meyer then there was nothing more to be said. If she wanted to marry him he would not stand in her way. Better an American for a son-in-law than a German.

The wedding took place three hours later in Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts' tiny Norman church. Roses from Valmy, pale flushed. Ophelias and milk-white Gloire de Dijons massed the small stone window-sills and crowded the foot of the altar.

There were only eight people present: the Mayor; Father Laffort, small and spry and enjoying the celebratory nature of his task after the grimness of the burials that had taken place; Madame Chamot, who had insisted that their few brief hours together after the wedding should be spent in the privacy of her cottage, while she absented herself on a visit to Madame Pichon; Old Bleriot, washed and shaved and ramrod straight in a shiny pin-striped suit; Major Harris, who was acting as best man; Henri; and the bride and groom.

Her dress was one that Madame Chamot had worn thirty years ago at a garden party in Deauville. It was of cream lace, high at the throat, the sleeves extending in delicate points over the back of her hands, the long skirt cascading gently to the floor. She had swept her hair high, coiling it on the top of her head, delicate tendrils curling at her temples and in the nape of her neck. A wisp of veiling, purloined from one of Madame Chamot's summer hats, was held in place by a full-blown rose.

Greg's battle-stained uniform had been exchanged for one that was spanking clean and freshly pressed, a feat which had been harder to achieve than all Lisette's bridal finery. His confidence and easy manner had relaxed even Henri. When he thought of the anguish of the last few months, it was a marriage he could view with nothing but relief.

As dusk fell and candles flared, they sang Lisette's favourite hymn and then Father Laffort stood before them. ‘Lisette and Gregory,' he intoned, speaking slowly so that the American would understand. ‘You have come together in this church so that the Lord may seal and strengthen your love in the presence of the church's minister and this community.'

The community, represented by old Bleriot and Madame Chamot, straightened their backs and stood stiffly in the ancient pews.

‘Christ abundantly blesses this love. He has already consecrated you in baptism and now he enriches and strengthens you by special sacrament so that you may assume the duties of marriage in mutual and lasting fidelity.'

Lisette's throat tightened. She had believed that she would stand and hear these words with Dieter. For a second a vision of what might have been swam before her eyes. Her fingers tightened on her posy of roses. She wasn't marrying Dieter. Dieter was dead. She was marrying Greg Dering. Tough, laughing-eyed, generous-hearted. She was marrying him and she was going to make him happy.

‘And so, in the presence of the church, I ask you to state your intentions,' Father Laffort said solemnly.

Greg looked down at her, and at the understanding and reassuring expression in his eyes she wondered if he had known what she was thinking. She smiled up at him, wanting to ease his concern, and then Father Laffort was saying, ‘Lisette and Gregory, I shall now ask you freely to undertake the obligations of marriage, and to state that there is no legal impediment to your marriage. Are you ready to do this and, without reservation, to give yourselves to each other in marriage?'

‘I am,' Greg said firmly.

Father Laffort smiled at her. ‘Lisette?' he prompted gently.

‘I am.' Her voice was low and clear, perfectly steady.

‘Are you ready to love and honour each other as man and wife for the rest of your lives?'

‘I am,' Greg said without hesitation.

In the blue haze of twilight the candles flickered warmly.

‘I am,' she said, lifting her face to the tall, broad-shouldered figure at her side. His eyes were warm and sure, leaving her no room for doubt.

‘Please say after me,' Father Laffort said to Greg, ‘I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Gregory James Dering, may not be joined in matrimony to Lisette Heloise de Valmy.'

Their eyes held, violet and brown, as they made their vows, and then he slipped his too-large signet ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand.

‘You may now kiss the bride.' Father Laffort said concludingly.

Greg lifted the veil from her face and did so with commendable competence. Madame Chamot dabbed at her eyes, old Bleriot grinned, and Henri remembered Lisette's baptism and marvelled at how quickly the intervening years had fled.

She gave her posy to Madame Chamot, kissed Major Harris and old Bleriot warmly on the cheek, and hugged her father tightly. There were to be no wedding celebrations. In three hours' time Greg had to be back in St Lo, preparing himself and his men for an early morning assault on their next objective – the market town of Torigni.

Major Harris, after wishing them all the happiness in the world, sped back to camp. Her father and old Bleriot walked off together up the hill towards Valmy, with the intention of sharing a bottle of calvados together. Madame Chamot pressed the key of her cottage into Greg's hand and hurried off, flush-cheeked, to spend the remainder of the night with Madame Pichon.

They stood in the deepening twilight, beneath the moss-covered lychgate, man and wife. His arm circled her waist. ‘Would you like to begin your honeymoon, Mrs Dering?' he asked gently.

She leaned her face against his shoulder, confounded by memories she had tried hard to suppress. Dieter carrying her into Valmy, her blood on his hands and his uniform. Dieter, his strong-boned face grim as he told her of the plot to assassinate Hitler. Dieter, his face transfigured by love for her as he twisted her beneath him in the lamplit glow of the turret room. She trembled, feeling as if she were about to commit an infidelity.

He slid his hands up to her shoulders, turning her towards him, sensing her distress.

‘If it's too soon for you, too quick, I understand,' he said, his tawny eyes dark with the passion he was curbing. ‘But we can't spend what little time we have together in the churchyard. Let's at least go to Madame Chamot's and talk.'

She nodded, grateful for his understanding, tenderness surging through her.

He traced the line of her jaw with his finger and then lowered his head, his mouth brushing her hair line.

At the touch of his mouth sensuality seeped along her veins, warming and reassuring. He was her husband. Only seconds ago she had promised to love him for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. They were going to build the rest of their lives together. Have children. Be happy.

His lips moved softly across her skin, dropping a kiss at the nape of her neck. She swayed against him, closing her mind to memories of the past.

‘I'd like to begin our honeymoon,' she said huskily, slipping her hand into his.

His arms tightened around her, his relief so great he could hardly speak. At last he said hoarsely, ‘Then let's go,' and holding her close against him, he led her out of the darkening churchyard and into the narrow, cobbled street that led to Madame Chamot's cottage.

Madame Chamot had been lavish in her preparations for their return. The sheets on Lisette's bed were fragrant with attar of roses and there were tiny sachets of pot-pourri beneath the lace-edged pillows. Greg lit the oil lamp on the large mahogany dressing-table. There was very little time, yet he was determined not to rush her. Better that they didn't make love at all than that they should do so without her willingness.

She stood in the centre of the room, still holding her posy of roses, her heart beating fast and light as he took off his jacket and walked across to the window, drawing the curtains against the rising moon.

She was acutely aware of his body. Of the whipcord muscles beneath his light cotton shirt. Of the ease and grace with which he moved, despite his height and tough build. His sexuality stirred and excited her. There was something utterly sure about him. A confidence that disturbed and aroused her. She put down her posy of flowers and as he turned from the window she said unsteadily, ‘Would you undo my buttons for me, please?' They ran, tiny and silk-covered, from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine.

Slowly he walked across the room to her, his breath tight in his throat. She was telling him that it was all right. That there was no need for him to keep a tight rein on the desire raging through his veins. That she was as ready for him as he was for her. His hands touched her shoulders and a tremor ran through her.

‘I love you,' he said huskily. ‘You're the most beautiful creature that I've ever seen, or ever will see.'

She raised her face to his, her eyes brilliant beneath the dark sweep of her lashes. She couldn't tell him that she loved him. Not yet. Not as she had loved Dieter. But she knew that she would love him. That love was already blossoming and burgeoning deep within her. And she knew that she could please him. That she could show her gratitude for his patience; for his understanding; for the love that he was already giving to her in such rich abundance.

Slowly she lifted her hands to her hair, pulling out the pins, letting the dark glory tumble to her shoulders, rippling and shimmering over the back of his hands.

He wound his fingers in the soft, heavy silkiness of it, pressing it against his lips, and then, his eyes smouldering with heat, he turned her round and one by one he began to unfasten the tiny silk buttons, revealing the creamy perfection of her flesh.