The Stolen Years

“Of course not,” he replied testily, hating himself for causing her consternation and bewilderment but unable to help it.

“Then what is it, Gavin, dear?” she asked, getting up. “Tell me. Something’s wrong. I can feel there’s something you don’t want to tell me.”

“It’s nothing. Nothing you’d understand,” he muttered, placing the poker back on its stand next to the fire.

“Why? Perhaps if you explained, I might.” She stood next to him, waiting for him to encircle her in his arms before raising her lips to his.

He pulled away and crossed over to the window. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said weakly. “You’re so innocent. A baby. You—you have no idea what it is like for a man to be close to you, day and night, and not—it doesn’t matter. The least said the better. I’ll get some wood in before dark.”

“No.” She stopped him, eyes glinting. “You are going to tell me exactly what it is I’m doing wrong. I won’t let you fob me off with excuses. I thought we were happy together. Almost as if we were married,” she added, blushing again.

“But married people don’t just—oh, forget it, Greta. You’ll understand one day.”

“No. I want to understand now, Gavin—there may never be a ‘one day.’ I know married people sleep together in the same bed. Is it something to do with that?”

He looked down at her, ashamed of himself, and reached for her hand. “They do more than just sleep together, my darling.”

“I had sort of gathered that. Could we do that other thing?” She came close, face flushed and eyes alight. “Would it make you happy?”

“No.” He shook his head firmly. “It wouldn’t be right. We’re not married, and well—you could end up having a baby.”

“Can you at least explain it to me, Gavin? Then I could decide, couldn’t I?”

“For Christ’s sake, Greta,” he exclaimed, embarrassed.

“Well, it can’t be that awful. After all, most women must do it, don’t they? I want to be yours, darling, all yours…whatever that means.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I would be betraying my loyalty to Franz.”

“Nothing’s wrong anymore, Gavin,” she said, drawing nearer as evening closed in and shadows bounced off the faded brocade walls. “That’s all the past now. We don’t know what will happen tomorrow or the day after, when the war will end, or…or anything. I want to feel married to you, even if we’re not. And maybe someday we can be.”

“No!” he exclaimed, Flora’s face flashing before him. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? Don’t you love me?”

“Of course I love you, Greta, but—oh, it’s too difficult to explain,” he said, pulling her close and casting Flora from his mind as his hand slipped to the small of her back and he pressed her body gently against his. She stiffened. “Do you understand, darling?” he whispered. “Are you sure you want to know, my Greta? Are you certain?” His senses dimmed as once more he made her feel his erection, barely hearing her whispered assent before leading her toward the large daybed.

One by one he undid the tiny buttons of her high-necked blouse, swallowed hard at her quick intake of breath when his hands reached her breast. Still he continued, unhurried, shedding each garment until she stood before him, her smooth, white skin gleaming in the shadows, her hair a burnished mane highlighted by the glow of the flames. Her eyes were misty now, innocent fear replaced by primeval female desire as she reached up, swept away the golden strands that had fallen over her breasts and stepped away from him.

“My God, you’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman on earth,” he whispered, awed yet somewhat hesitant. This was not one of the French whores at Paris Plage whom he’d paid to experiment with, a brief sexual fling like Annelise. He was about to make Greta a woman, and the knowledge was both frightening and exhilarating.

“Gavin,” she whispered, cheeks ablaze, her voice husky with desire. “I want to see you as you are seeing me.” It was as though the power of womanhood had suddenly been revealed to her, paralyzing him. Then she arched unconsciously and the need to feel her skin on his, to possess her entirely, overruled his fear. She watched, face flushed, as he undressed, diverting her eyes when he took off his underwear.

Eyes locked, they caressed one another, their bodies lit by the glow of the fire and a flame within, pure yet so intense it burned both flesh and soul. Then she was in his arms, his hands roaming down her back to the curve of her buttocks, delighting in the delicate texture of her skin, before laying her gently among the blue and gold brocade cushions of the daybed.

Her eyes closed as he trailed his fingers languorously, determined to savor the enchantment for as long as he was able. But determination grew thin when he reached the taut curve of her breasts and her eyes opened, turning from misty green to emerald as she gasped, her nipples hardening deliciously to his touch. And Gavin knew the sudden thrill of original male triumph. He was the first. To touch, to feel, to love her.

He lowered his lips to her breast, her soft moans empowering, instinct guiding him as he reached the soft golden mound between her thighs, feeling her body tense as he parted her. For a moment he was afraid, but her small cry of ecstasy had his thumb caressing and his fingers exploring until the need to possess her became unendurable and gently he parted her thighs, knowing he could wait no longer.

“I’ll try not to hurt you, my darling,” he whispered as her eyes flew open and he gazed down at her through the glimmering shadows, lips parted, her face framed by a sea of gold-flecked strands splayed across the pillow. Then he could wait no longer, and thrust relentlessly, her visceral cry bringing him to a thundering climax.

Later he held her, soothing her in his arms, Greta’s head tucked into the crook of his broad shoulder and her hair falling like a silken mantle over his chest.

Gavin woke shivering at dawn, realizing that Greta must be frozen. He rose, careful not to wake her, his body reacting immediately when she stretched like a kitten then curled among the cushions, a magical fairy princess wrapped in her golden mane.

He moved to the fire and placed a log on the dying embers. Soon one flame caught, then another, and as daylight crept stealthily through the window, he looked for something to cover her with.

It was then he saw the bloodstains on her thighs and belly. For a moment he reproached himself for acting like a brute. Then, as she gave a contented sigh in her sleep, he smiled despite his misgivings and covered her tenderly with a blanket that lay on the chair, realizing he’d better be ready to explain what had happened, for she evidently had very little clue about the facts of life.

He felt very mature and manly as he walked upstairs to the bathroom. Then he went to his room and put on an old velvet dressing gown forgotten by one of the kaiser’s entourage and came down again, armed with a damp towel and her long silk nightgown. She was still fast asleep, so he laid the things near her and went to the kitchen to make coffee, hoping she wouldn’t be upset when she woke. They were using the coffee sparingly, but today was special, so he added an extra spoonful before stoking the stove and putting the water on to boil, totally relaxed for the first time in ages.

Then, as the kettle began to simmer, he pricked up his ears, certain he’d heard an engine. It was far away, but in this silence you could make anything out. He took the kettle off the stove and rushed to the study.

“Greta, darling, wake up.” He shook her shoulder gently.

“Gavin,” she whispered, a lazy, satisfied smile curving her lips.

“Darling, wake up. I think I heard a car. It’s probably nothing, but all the same we’d better be prepared.”

She sat up instantly, pulling the blanket to her chin, then, glancing instinctively toward the window, she burst into laughter. “That’s impossible. It’s still snowing, look.”

Gavin smiled. She was right. There were at least three feet of snow outside. He sighed with relief, realizing it would be impossible for any vehicle to reach Schloss Annenberg under these weather conditions. It must have been his imagination. Perhaps the war was getting nearer. Who could tell? They hadn’t heard any news of the outside world for so long.

“Maybe the war is getting closer and it was anti-aircraft guns,” he said with a shrug, sitting next to her, stroking her hair. “My God, you’re lovely.”

“I feel lovely,” she said, blushing deliciously before sinking back among the cushions. Then all at once she winced, a dull flush darkening her cheeks, and he remembered.

“You—you may want this,” he said, picking up the damp towel hesitantly and handing it to her, embarrassed. “I brought your nightgown, too.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks crimson, her gaze remained riveted on the towel.

“Greta, darling, don’t worry. It’s normal. When I—when we—well, you’ve bled a little, that’s all, but it’s all right,” he finished in a rush, reaching for her hand. “Remember, it’s as if we were married now. We mustn’t be ashamed with one another.” She nodded, hair shrouding her face. “I’ll go and finish making breakfast. You join me in the kitchen when you’re ready.” He leaned forward and kissed her, ready to leave her in privacy. But when his mouth touched hers, her lips parted. Coffee was forgotten as they came together in a frenzied rush, the blanket and dressing gown thrown aside as they cleaved to one another, wanting nothing more than to prolong the enchantment.

He didn’t wait this time; he took her. And soon she was arching, nails sinking into his shoulders, fanning the blaze of their unleashed passion till it burst into flames and he let out a cry.

This time it was his head that sank onto Greta’s breast, tired and satiated. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Flora. But Greta’s fingers were massaging his neck, her nails coursing through his hair, driving him into a delicious stupor where all he could do was smile, sigh and mutter softly while his unshaved chin grazed her breasts and he fell fast asleep.

7

Etaples, France, 1918

The German offensive had intensified to such a degree during the past weeks that they could not help wondering how much longer the Allied forces would resist the massive drive from the east. Although no one ever expressed their doubts out loud, each day new villages and towns fell and more and more casualties poured in.

In one of the rare moments of quiet Flora was able to grab between shifts, she wrote to Angus, shipped home three months earlier.

It never stops. Day and night the wounded are pouring in and there is barely room to house them. The floors are covered with stretchers and they are treated there, for the beds are full. The operating theaters never stop and they arrive in everything from ambulances to cattle trucks. Bapaume, Beaumont Hamel and Péronne have all fallen and they are saying that the Germans are already in the suburbs of Amiens. Now there is very little left between us and the front lines…Angus dear, if I should not return…remember him for me, won’t you? I promise that if that should be the case, both he and I will be watching over you…

But the frantic activity, dealing with destroyed limbs, removing the stench-filled basins of bloodied gauze and cotton, and treating wounds, allowed her no time to think of Gavin as she prepared surgical instruments and rolled bandages in the hectic dispensary. Not even Arras or the battles of 1917 could compare to the current threat, as the enemy inched toward them, a relentless monster avidly seeking its prey.