Never Forget Me (28 page)

The path widened and Luc caught up with her, taking her hand, enjoying the warmth of her fingers as they twined with his. They talked of politics, because there was so much to discuss. The Paris Peace Conference. The new workweek that would be introduced in Britain and in France. Momentous changes that the war had brought about, but today they’d had enough of the world, and the subject paled.

‘That book you were reading the other day, when you were having lunch, are you enjoying it?’ Luc asked.

Sheila made a face. ‘Virginia Woolf. Not particularly. It’s beautifully written and frightfully clever, and before the war I’d have lapped it up, but these days I find I want something less weighty.’

‘Such as?’

‘You’ll laugh at me,’ she said, ‘but I think I’m a wee bit in love with an ape man called Tarzan.’

He did laugh. And because her eyes were dancing with fun, and because her mouth was curved into the most teasing of smiles, and that smile connected straight with his groin, he caught her to him. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘Well, he lives in the jungle, naturally, so he spends most of the story half naked, but that’s fine because he’s very athletic, and very good-looking. He’s a bit of a hero, too, forever doing good deeds.’

‘Every woman’s dream, in fact,’ Luc said ironically.

Sheila chuckled. ‘He’s not so very different from you. I think the work you do is much more than heroic. I’ve been reading some of the case studies you wrote up for the medical journals. You work miracles, Luc. You don’t just save lives, you make life so much better for those dreadfully disfigured men and their families. You make them feel human again.’

He was accustomed to being thanked, accustomed to his skill being lauded, but his standards were so high, his aim always for perfection, that more often than not he felt undeserving of both. ‘I think it is never enough, what I do,’ Luc said. ‘I think there must always be more.’

‘From what I’ve read, you’re already achieving the impossible. Your patients must think you a real hero. I know I do.’

She meant it, and it touched him to the core. He had been lonely before coming here to Glen Massan, he realised with a shock, and with a further shock realised that Sheila was the reason he wasn’t lonely now. It panicked him, this knowledge, so he thrust it to one side, and said the first thing that came into his head. ‘So if I went to live in a jungle, you’d desert this Tarzan for me?’ She blushed delightfully. ‘And if you did,
mignonne
,’ he said, ‘would you be half naked, too?’

An image of her, not half but fully naked, flashed into his head, and he was immediately aroused. He wanted to kiss her again. Was this what he’d intended when he’d suggested this outing? He’d been so befuddled with that kiss, he hadn’t been thinking straight. And Sheila, what had she wanted?

‘Tarzan doesn’t have a mate,’ she said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘He’s too busy saving lives. You see, you do have a lot in common.’

The truth is, you don’t have time for a wife, you’re too busy saving lives.
Eugenie’s accusatory words rang in his ears. Abruptly, he let Sheila go, making a show of gazing up at the sky, hefting up the haversack, which had fallen unnoticed to the ground. ‘I hope it’s not going to rain. We haven’t had our picnic yet.’

‘Luc, what’s wrong?’

He forced a smile. ‘Nothing.’

* * *

They walked to the end of the woods in silence. Beside her, Luc was frowning, lost in thought. Sheila racked her brain but couldn’t understand what she’d said to make him retreat into himself. They emerged at the edge of the loch, and the promontory upon which the church stood came into view. As ever, the haunting beauty of the ruin made her stop in her tracks.

‘
Mon Dieu
, it must be very old,’ Luc said.

‘Fourteenth century,’ Sheila replied, ‘though apparently there was a monastery on the site for hundreds of years before that.’

They followed the perimeter wall round to the gate and entered the ancient churchyard. Luc bent over the headstones, most of which had sunk into the soft ground, tracing the inscriptions with his fingertips. The wrought iron enclosure that housed the Carmichael family crypt stood at the far end, facing out over the loch. The large Celtic cross that bore the names of those interred was made of the same grey granite as Glen Massan House. The gold lettering of the newest inscription stood out brighter than the rest.

Alexander Gordon Maxwell Carmichael

Lieutenant of the Argyll and Southern Highlanders

Laid down his life for his country 10th October 1918 aged 20 years

Virtutis Gloria Merces

Beloved son, the battle is over, but you will live forever in our hearts

‘Glory is the reward of valour,’ Luc translated. ‘Do you believe that?’

Sheila frowned, shaking her head. ‘I’ve witnessed the results of valour and they’re far from glorious, but...’ She broke off, staring at the words on the tomb. ‘I believe we have a duty, those of us who are left, to make sure that they didn’t die in vain. You’ll think that sounds awfully pompous but...’

‘
Non
, I think it is true. I came here to Scotland hoping to escape France and all the memories. I wanted to forget the war, but it’s not possible, is it? It has shaped us.’

A cloud scudded over the sun, casting a shadow on the tombstone. There were fresh flowers in an urn. Lady Carmichael’s doing, Sheila knew, for the laird had been unable to bear coming here after the ceremony. She wondered where they had come from, those flowers at this time of year. She opened the gate and laid her own spray of dried rosemary on the plinth, kneeling down to say a private prayer.

When she had finished, the sun was shining again. Luc was standing to one side of the railings, gazing out over the loch. She slipped her hand into his.

‘D’accord?’
he asked.

She nodded, her smile tinged with sadness. ‘If you could go back to being the person you were before the war, would you?’

‘Non,’
Luc said without hesitation. ‘When I said it had shaped us, I didn’t mean I wished it undone. When I said there was no escaping the war, I meant it would be wrong to pretend—or to try to pretend—it didn’t happen. It did, and here we are, and you are right, we have a duty to make all that sacrifice worthwhile.’ He grinned. ‘Now you will think I sound pompous.’

She brushed her lips against his hand. ‘I think you put it perfectly.’

* * *

They left the chapel enclosure, and Sheila led the way towards the path that wound up the hill. Luc followed her up the steep climb, arriving at the top, slightly out of breath as she was, exclaiming with surprise as they skirted the protective hedge of yellow-flowering gorse to the hollow of grass on the other side.

‘C’est magnifique,’
he said, gazing out at the vista, the loch, the hills, Glen Massan House and the village beyond.

Sheila spread out the old blanket she had packed, but left the food in the rucksack. The sun was warm, and the gorse protected them from the breeze. Luc took off his jacket, collar and tie and lay back, resting his head on his clasped hands. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, leaving his throat exposed. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, the corded sinew on his forearms standing out under the soft smattering of hair. His eyes were closed. She stretched out beside him, his skin pale compared to hers.

‘Do you regret coming here?’ she asked. ‘To Glen Massan?’

He rolled over onto his side to face her. ‘How could I, when it allowed me to meet you again?’

Sheila could feel the blush stealing over her cheeks and dipped her head. ‘Luc, I don’t know what you thought, but I’ve never done anything like that before. I had no idea what you expected of me—afterwards, I mean.’

He smoothed his hand over her hair, gently tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. ‘So that is why you ran away? I had a feeling that you had shocked yourself as much as I had, but I didn’t know how to ask. Am I permitted to say that it pleases my ego, your saying that?’

‘I didn’t think your ego would be in need of pleasing. You are the dashing Dr Durand.’

His laughter was softly ironic. ‘Not so dashing, I assure you. While you were getting dressed in such a hurry, I was hiding in the
salle de bain
agonising over what the etiquette was in such situations.’

She couldn’t help laughing, touched to see that he looked faintly embarrassed.

‘I know, it is ridiculous,
non
?’

His fingers were tangled in her hair, lightly stroking the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. ‘It was not just worrying about etiquette that kept me there,’ he said.

‘No?’ She could see the pulse beating at his throat, the first hint of stubble on his jaw. The honey scent of the gorse reminded her of their kiss earlier.

‘I was worried that if you were still naked when I came back, that I would not be able to hide the fact that I wanted to make love to you again.’

She remembered him standing there dressed only in a towel. She remembered how shocked she had been at her body’s response to him, how determined she had been not to betray herself. How different would things have been had she stayed? How much more complicated? But she had not, and what was the point in speculating about what might have been when he was here now, and metaphorically speaking she was once again standing in the doorway, and she could choose to walk away or to stay?

His fingers had stilled. She had been silent too long to pretend there was not a question to be answered and she knew it would not be asked again. Tomorrow they would return to being Dr Durand and Miss Fraser. Today...

‘Would it shock you,’ she said, reaching over to smooth his hair to feather her fingers over his nape, mirroring what he had done to her, ‘if I told you that I was thinking the same thing?’

* * *

Luc tensed. For a fraction of a second he hesitated, but though there were a hundred reasons for him to get up and walk away, he could think of only one thing. He wanted her, and she wanted him.

He rolled her onto her back, taking her unawares. She lay beneath him, her hair spread out behind her, her eyes wide with surprise. ‘Would it shock you if I told you that I have spent a great deal of time wondering what we would have done if you had stayed?’ he asked.

‘And if I told you that once again, we’d been thinking the same thing?’

‘I would tell you that I would be astonished if it was the exact same thing,’ Luc whispered.

‘Why don’t you tell me, and we can compare notes.’

He laughed. ‘Why don’t I show you instead,’ he said, and kissed her.

The kiss started where the other had left off. Heat flared between them. She twined her arms around his neck and arched under him. He fumbled with the belt that held her knitted jacket in place and pushed the garment aside. Her hands fluttered up and down his back. He rolled onto his side, pulling his shirt over his head.

He kissed her again, shuddering as she stroked his skin. Buttons. He cursed. ‘Why does this thing need so many buttons?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought they’d be a problem to a surgeon as skilled as you,’ she said, undoing them.

‘I’m not a surgeon,
aujourd’hui
, I am a man.’

She laughed, a throaty sound that made his muscles clench. ‘Patently.’

He sighed with satisfaction as her blouse parted, revealing the soft contours of her breasts under the white cotton of her underwear. ‘And you,
ma belle
, are just as patently a woman,’ he said, taking one of her dark pink nipples into his mouth and sucking.

She bucked under him. He continued to suck though the flimsy material. Her brassière also buttoned up the front, but this time his fingers cooperated. He buried his face between the valley of her breasts, teasing her nipples with his thumbs.

‘Is this what you imagined?’ he whispered, cupping her fullness.

‘Yes,’ she answered, flattening her palm over his chest. ‘And this.’

‘And this?’ he asked, kissing her again, shuddering with pleasure as her tongue touched his.

‘And this,’ she said, her hands on his buttocks, arching against him, so that his erection throbbed between her legs.

He groaned, sliding down her body, pushing her skirts and petticoats up and tugging her knickers down. ‘And this?’ he said, lifting her to him. ‘Did you imagine this?’

He licked into her, and she made the most delightful of sounds, intensely feminine. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have never—oh! Dear heavens, yes.’

She was wet, soft, pink. He licked again, and she shuddered, and again, tasting her, teasing her, rousing her and tensing as his own arousal pulsed. She clutched at his shoulders and moaned his name as his tongue stroked her. She dug her heels into the ground, arching up under him as she climaxed.

He had never been so aroused as she tugged at his shoulders, rolling him onto his back, lying over him in a tangle of clothes and hot skin, kissing him frantically. Tiny kisses, on his eyes, his cheeks, his jaw, back to his mouth. Her hands fluttered over his chest, his belly, to the fastenings of his trousers. He kicked himself free of them and his underclothes. She knelt between his legs as he had done between hers. Her nipples were hard, pert, pink as she leaned over him, taking his shaft in her hands.

‘Did you imagine this?’ she asked, circling her fingers round him, stroking him slowly.

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything but concentrate on not peaking too soon. Not yet. She stroked him again, watching him. Her eyes were dark, her cheeks flushed. ‘Did you imagine this?’ she asked, taking the weight of him in her palm.

He groaned, feeling himself contract. She bent farther over him, her nipples brushing his belly. ‘And this?’ she said, kissing his chest. ‘And this?’