The Moonlight Mistress (17 page)

How wicked, to invite a man into her bed. She could not think of anything she wanted more. Though if she pondered
practicalities, she was sure his feet would freeze. Her bed wasn’t long enough for him, and she doubted her blankets were much better. Perhaps he would wake in the night, freezing, and want to find warmer quarters.

Pascal touched her cheek. “I’ve dreamed of sleeping next to you. I was sorely disappointed each time to wake and find it untrue.”

Lucilla couldn’t find words to respond to this statement, which held the ring of truth. She turned away from him, dragged her cap from her head amid a spatter of hairpins and tossed it atop a crate. Her short cape was next, then her bloodstained apron. Pascal’s hands closed over her shoulders and massaged them for a few moments, occasionally leaning down to kiss the back of her neck. She moaned in relief. “Thank you,” she whispered. He helped her with the rest of her clothing, then stripped off his own uniform, heedlessly letting it fall to the dirt floor. Within a few moments, they were crammed together in her narrow bed, one of Pascal’s long legs crooked over her hip and his chest hot against her back. He felt so good that she shuddered; she’d forgotten what it was like to be touched so fully, with such intimate intent. He squeezed his arm around her belly, curling his fingers into her waist, circling his thumb on her skin.

He murmured in French, so close to her skin she couldn’t discern his words, then kissed her ear. “Sleep.”

“Pascal,” she whispered, already half drowning in slumber. She remembered nothing more until deep in the night, when she woke, gritty eyed, to his hands gently shaping her breasts.

“Dreaming,” she mumbled, turning her face partially toward his nuzzling. His mustache pricked her cheek, then she felt the satiny brush of his tongue at the corner of her mouth.
She turned in his arms and pressed her cold nose into his chest. When he didn’t flinch away, she clutched him more tightly.

He eased his arms around her and kissed her behind the ear. “You smell delicious,” he said.

“I’m so tired,” she said.

His hands stilled, then moved in a long, soothing stroke down her spine. “Go back to sleep, then,” he said.

“No,” she said. “You came all this way.”

“It’s enough to lie here with you in my arms.”

“That’s tosh,” she said. “I can feel your cock on my leg.”

Pascal chuckled against her hair. “It can remain there. I’ve not died of it yet.”

She took a deep, steadying breath. “If you leave without fucking me, I shall be very angry,” Lucilla said.

His arms crushed her close. He didn’t say anything.

“That is why you came here, isn’t it?” she asked, shifting against him for the pleasurable sensation of their skin stroking across one another. The thin stream of cold air that always worked its way into her hut from one crack or another blew across her bare shoulder, but the rest of her was warming deliciously. A male body provided a sovereign cure against cold weather.

Pascal tucked the blanket back over her shoulder, from where it had fallen. “You didn’t want me to see you again,” he said. His voice gave nothing away, and his chin blocked her view of his facial expression, dimly lit by electric light shining in the window.

“You’re in my bed now, aren’t you?”

“I was already here. You could hardly push me out into the night.”

Lucilla sighed. “I could have. I do want you.”

“If I happen to be present. You would not have sought me out.”

He had no right to be angry at her. She’d made no promises. Lucilla sat up and shoved at his chest with her hand. “I didn’t think
you
wanted to see
me
again!”

Pascal captured her hand in his and kissed it, hard enough that she felt the pressure of his teeth through his lips. “I did not lie to you at Le Havre! Why did you doubt me?”

His tone was angry, but his expression pained. Lucilla found she couldn’t meet his gaze. It wouldn’t be wise to tell him that she’d given up trusting men’s words long ago. Clearly, he felt he should be an exception. So far, he had proven himself to be an exception. Everything he had done since his arrival spoke of a deeper attachment than Lucilla had dared imagine or hope for. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she was. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She’d only worried about being hurt herself.

Pascal still held her hand. He kissed it again, gently this time, his mustache tickling between her knuckles. “If I misread your interest, I’m sorry,” he said. “I will leave if you ask me to do so. Even now.”

Lucilla snorted and squeezed his fingers. “You don’t want to stride nobly out into the night. I appreciate that you offered, though.”

“I would do it!” he protested.

“I don’t want you to go,” she said, took back her hand and lay down again, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his bare skin. “I was afraid,” she muttered. “Afraid I would never see you again.”

“Because you want me to fuck with?” he asked, but his tone now was soft, teasing.

She replied, “I could’ve had any number of dashing young men in my bed if I’d wanted.”

Pascal ran his big hand down her arm, raising fine hairs in its wake. “Perhaps one of them would not be so inconvenient as to arrive in the middle of the night, unannounced, and then to discomfit you with talk of affection.”

Lucilla laid her head on his shoulder. “One of those men would be a poor bargain, then.” She chuckled. “How silly you are. No one else wants me.”

“They’re incredibly foolish, then.” Pascal ducked his head and kissed her, closemouthed but lingering. “I obtained two English journals and read your work. You are worth any five of the men I knew at Cambridge.”

Lucilla blinked. “What?”

“The Journal of Palliative Care,”
he said. “And the other,
Pharmacopia.
”

“You read—”

“I am not entirely sure I understood the implications of your report in
Pharmacopia
. My knowledge of chemistry was not sufficient. Perhaps later, you can—”

“Pascal!”

He kissed her ear. “Pardon. I became distracted.”

He’d read her work. He’d gone to the trouble to find what she had written, to seek out journals in a foreign tongue and then to both read them and strive for understanding. No one, not even her own mother and father, had ever done so much, cared so much about the work she’d spent years producing. A glow expanded to fill her chest and belly, a deep joy such as she’d never felt before. Lucilla captured Pascal’s cheeks between her palms and kissed him softly. “Enough talking,” she said.

She pushed him flat, arching herself over him, letting her
nipples tease his chest, teasing herself at the same time, staring into his eyes and watching them crinkle at the corners. He would have creases there when he grew older. Propping herself on one arm, she smoothed her hand over his tousled brown hair, then pressed his mouth open with her fingers. His tongue swept out, encircling, sucking. She closed her eyes, swaying. She collapsed against him slowly, nestling herself into each hollow of his long body, stroking his lips and mustache with her damp fingers, then letting him suck them again.

After a while, he dragged her up along him until they could kiss mouth to mouth. Lucilla experimented, brushing her lips so lightly against his that it felt as if a breeze blew over her skin. She licked her lips, then his, and did it again, pressing in slowly until their mouths slid slickly one across the other. Pascal made a sound, and she knew he’d made the same mental connection she had, of his cock sliding wetly in her vagina. She couldn’t keep up her teasing long. After a quick taste of his inner lip, she plunged her tongue into his mouth for a long, deep kiss, and slid her hand down to mimic the action on his cock. When she drew back from his mouth, Pascal laughed unsteadily. His hands moved restlessly over her back. “You are ravishing me,” he whispered. “Please continue.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Anything I like?”

“I would be pleased to discover what pleases you,” Pascal said. “Then may we converse?”

“About?” Lucilla teased the tip of her finger beneath his foreskin and watched him arch and shudder.

“What—what we will do.”

“I thought that was quite clear,” she said, giving his cock a firm stroke.

“After. What we will do when the war ends.” Pascal’s eyes
squeezed shut, then he opened them and stared directly at her. “I don’t wish to lose you.”

She didn’t want to spoil this moment. “Later,” she said. “We’ll speak of it later.”

“Very well.” His hand closed over hers, stopping her movement. “We have many things to talk about, together.”

Lucilla smiled. “That’s true.” Still smiling, she bent and kissed him, then slid down upon his cock.

Afterward, she lay half on, half beside him in the narrow bed, petting his chest hair with one hand and cupping his jutting hipbone with the other, her thumb circling lightly on the thin skin there. “I would like to read some of your writing,” she said. “Is any in English, or German? I’m afraid my technical vocabulary in French is nonexistent, outside of chemistry.”

“I—” His hand shifted on her back. “I would like to, but I fear I cannot.”

“I see.” She asked, “Have you reported on research like Kauz’s experiments? With people or animals?”

“No!”

“But he’s part of it, isn’t he? Kauz, and what he did. Does.”

Warily, Pascal said, “Perhaps.”

“Why?”

“I cannot tell you.” He turned and looked closely at her. “They are not my secrets to share.”

His expression pled for understanding. She said reluctantly, “I don’t want to put you in danger.”

“Others, more than me,” he said. “I will tell you later, if I can obtain permission. I want to tell you more.”

He was keeping secrets from her, yet she still trusted him. She said, “I’ll hold you to it.”

PASCAL USED THE SERVANTS’ ENTRANCE TO SLIP into the house at Rue Deuxième. He’d been hoping no one would notice he’d been gone for two days longer than his errand had warranted. The entrance was guarded, of course, but only by old Armand, who knew where he’d gone and why, and had cared for Pascal’s cats in his absence. Pascal set a bottle of wine on the kitchen table, and Armand turned it to see the vintage. “I hear that Antwerp has surrendered to the Boche,” he said. “Did our people escape?”

“There is no word yet.” Armand shook his head, as if to fling off worry, and said, “And your errand? It was successful?”

Pascal broke into a smile.

Armand cackled. “If only I were twenty years younger, I would have accompanied you, and found myself a pretty English nurse.” He tapped out his pipe and added, “You’re a good boy, bringing me wine that I cannot afford on my pension. If you stay here and watch the door, I will make you coffee and an omelette.”

He hadn’t eaten in almost nine hours. “Gladly.” He took over Armand’s chair, checked the pistol that lay to hand and propped his aching feet on a crate of turnips. “My informant—the blond woman—was to return this week. Did you see her?” Armand knew everything that went on in the Rue Deuxième.

Armand looked up from the basket of onions. “The skinny one? Who is mad?”

“She’s not—”

Armand shook his head sadly. “Mad. She would cut a man’s balls off, that one, should he cross her. My second cousin’s third wife—”

Pascal interrupted; Armand’s stories could stretch indefinitely. “Have you seen Madame Claes at all this week? Or had any word of her here?”

“None at all. She went to Antwerp, you know.”

Pascal’s stomach plunged to his feet. “She did not.”

“She did. The colonel had a message, and she said she would take it, and no one else. We do not know if she was successful. We will not know until Piron and Verhelst return, if they return.”

Pascal cursed, long and fluently, while Armand broke eggs into a bowl, added a little milk and beat them to a froth. As he wound down, Armand said, “I thought the English nurse was your woman. You are after the mad Belgian, too?”

“It is imperative she stay alive,” he growled. “She is the most excellent spy we have.”

“Not if she cannot obey orders,” Armand said. “In my day, men were shot for less.” He folded the omelette.

“She is not a soldier,” Pascal said. “She has signed no papers. Our only hold on her is her hatred of the Boche.”

“Ah,” said Armand. “That hold can be powerful.”

“Not if her own hatred is stronger than is useful. I fear she will do something foolish, and be killed, and then where shall we be?” Pascal stared down at the omelette Armand slid in front of him and remembered one of his first meetings with Madame Claes.

He’d sat across a table from her, and pushed papers across its surface. “If you memorize these maps now, as a human, it should help you as a wolf.”

Her lip curled. “Do you think me a fool? I have already studied maps of the terrain.”

“Unless you can fly, these maps are better. They show the lines of entrenchment from the air.”

She spread the maps and peered at them, silently tracing lines with her finger. She said at last, in a distant tone, “It should not be, but it is true. From above, the lines look exactly the same. Never mind. I will know them by their scent.”

Pascal wondered if she could truly tell friend from enemy by scent. If she could, would she have been taken captive by Kauz? And what if she was taken captive in Antwerp?

Many duties awaited him, many more pressing than the fate of one woman, but he felt more responsible for her fate than for any other’s. She’d come to him first, with information, but she might not have continued had he not encouraged her and tried to channel her abilities for the good of France and, ultimately, Belgium. Had he been wrong to do so? He wasn’t used to doubting and rethinking his decisions in this way. He tried to remain scrupulously logical in these matters, but this time he had followed his emotions, as he did too often with women. Perhaps it had been unwise to trust that Madame Claes would know when the danger she courted was too much.

Also, she was more than just a woman. She had survived the cruelest torments in both her forms, and had gone on to bravely fight her enemy with all her strength. He admired that. He did not think he would have been so brave, himself. He admired her, and he liked her, for her bravery and for her cutting sarcasm and cold humor that met his every verbal sally in kind. He refused to believe that she was dead. He would first discover if indeed Kauz had taken her, rather than some more mundane authority, and second where she was being held. He could not let her be held captive again.

He took heart when he remembered Lucilla. He would be able to enlist her help, and perhaps that of the werewolf captain. If he could find Madame Claes, the rest would be possible. Pascal took a glass of wine from Armand, sipped and began to eat his omelette. He could set the search in motion as soon as he’d eaten.

He could begin with Kauz’s laboratory; perhaps this time he could locate its secret counterpart where once Kauz had held a werewolf captive. His superiors might not be happy with him for diverting resources in such a way, but he could see no alternative. He had once sworn he would aid the survival of werewolves as best he could. He could do no less than make this effort, and if Kauz was involved, then all the better. He could eliminate a threat to werewolves and a threat to his country with one blow.

“Miss Daglish?”

Lucilla jerked in surprise, her hand to her chest. She’d been rushing from her hut to X-ray to pick up the most recent films on behalf of Miss Rivers. It had rained all night, and the paths were awash in soupy mud. Her hands ached from the damp
cold. She tucked them beneath her arms as she turned slowly, and confronted Captain Ashby. “Where did you come from?”

“Hailey told me you wanted to see me. Thank you for the chocolate.”

“It was meant for my brother.”

He laughed. His cheeks were ruddy from the wind, his eyes alive with humor. “Daglish was kind enough to share it.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You can send more whenever you like. My favorite is the Belgian sort.”

“Cheeky,” she said. “I’m on my way to the ward just now. Can you wait a few moments?”

“I’ll wait in Hailey’s storage shed, how’s that?”

“Don’t let anyone see you,” she said, and hurried on. As she delivered the films, she pondered what to tell Captain Ashby, and how to tell it to him. She had broken his confidence by telling Pascal of his existence, but stood by her decision. It was too late to do otherwise. She would have to go forward without shirking, as she had when she and Pascal had stolen Kauz’s motor.

It wasn’t so easy to sneak away from Sister Inkson, the latest crop of earnest young
mademoiselles
, and one or two of her mobile patients, but she managed it with the help of a preoccupied expression, a purposeful walk and an armful of linens. She dumped the linens on an orderly and escaped out a side door. It had begun to rain, the chilly sort of downpour that made her bones twinge. Disregarding uniform protocol, she draped her cape over her head and dashed for the storage sheds.

Captain Ashby crouched in a rear corner next to crates of knitted scarves that had been donated from women’s organizations all over the empire. He rose gracefully when she entered
and shoved his cap onto the back of his head, revealing some of his cropped gingery hair. Lucilla envied his ease of movement; she herself felt as if she’d been trampled by cavalry. She said, “Thank you for waiting.”

“I never mind waiting for a woman,” he said. “Why did you need to speak with me?”

“Have a seat,” she suggested, taking one herself atop a crate of disinfectant. The bottles within clanked as she shifted uneasily. When Ashby was seated across from her, she said, “I know a man who works for the French government, and he would like to consult with you.” She hesitated. “I didn’t tell him your name, or anything like that. But I’m afraid he knows you are a werewolf.”

Ashby was silent for a long time. After a few moments, Lucilla asked, “Are you
smelling
me?”

More solemnly than she’d ever heard him speak, he said, “Yes. Sometimes truth has its own scent. This man—he is French?—he knew about werewolves already, didn’t he?”

“He suspected.”

“He probably knew,” Ashby said. “It isn’t something most people think about. Is he a werewolf himself?”

“No!” She paused. “At least, I don’t think so—” Wouldn’t he have said so? Would Pascal have told such a thing to her? Why hadn’t it occurred to her that he might have more than his stated motive for investigating Kauz? He
had
been evasive when she’d asked about his work.

Ashby continued, “Or perhaps he’s related to one. We don’t always breed true, you know, at least not with humans. It’s not that uncommon to find a human with a trace of the blood. You can smell it on them. Sometimes they have hints of it—a better sense of smell, or hearing, or extra strength or
endurance.” He paused. “And sometimes there are humans who know of us, and intend us harm.”

Lucilla’s mind swam with possibilities. She forced them from her mind for later contemplation. She could not remain here long, and she had to give Ashby her message. “I don’t know, but he does not intend you harm. I would stake my reputation on it,” she said. “If you decide to speak to him, perhaps you will find out.” She produced a sealed envelope from her apron pocket. “He gave me this. It has instructions for how to send him a letter, and, also, a telephone number, which he would appreciate you destroying as soon as possible. We have a telephone here, in the main hospital building. I might be able to get you in to use it.”

Ashby took the envelope, his callused fingers brushing hers. “I’ll have to come back for that, or find another telephone. I’m due at my regiment soon, we’re to meet with a German officer about a burial truce. It wouldn’t do for me to be late.” He paused, then said, “I have a friend. Lieutenant Gabriel Meyer. He knows what I am. If you can’t get through to me for some reason, try to contact him, instead. He will know how to find me.”

“Captain—Major Fournier is an ally. I am sure of it.” She
was
sure. She knew Pascal was not like Kauz. She paused. Pascal might have lied to her for other reasons, however. Some of those reasons, she might understand. “If he is…not quite human…will you keep his secret, if he keeps yours?”

“Don’t worry about that, Miss Daglish. It’s a matter of honor among my kind. If you’re not sure I can be trusted, bite my neck and I’ll have to obey your orders, whatever they might be. It’s a dominance ritual. Wolves do it all the time.”

Lucilla made a face. “You are ridiculous, Captain.”

Ashby smiled at her, guileless as a babe. “No, it’s true. Why can’t you believe such a simple thing? You believe I’m a werewolf—”

“I
saw
that,” Lucilla pointed out. “How do I know you’re telling the truth about this?”

“Only one way to find out,” Ashby said. He unbuttoned the collar of his uniform tunic and tugged it aside. His neck looked startlingly pale and vulnerable. “Would I let you do this if I didn’t trust you?”

“Would you give me power over you?” Lucilla countered. “I wouldn’t.”

“I want your trust. You won’t give it to me unless you feel confident I won’t…well, do whatever you’re worried I’ll do. I only eat rabbits and rats and such, but if you won’t believe me, then…” He tipped his head to the side. “Go on.”

Lucilla already couldn’t believe she was hiding in a storeroom with a handsome young man. The fact that he could turn into a giant, hairy wolf was only a little stranger than that. But the idea of her teeth touching his skin seemed more unbelievable than anything else. She couldn’t imagine doing such a thing, here in the hospital, in a world where she only touched the ill and wounded.

Best to get on with it, then, as with any disturbing task. She leaned forward. Ashby smelled of bergamot cologne and gun oil. Before she could lose her courage, she pressed her mouth to his throat. The bristly rasp beneath his chin startled her, and she jerked back. He didn’t taste like Pascal. “Well?” she said.

Ashby’s breathing had sped up. “You didn’t bite me.”

“You moved,” she said.

“I didn’t—” He shut his mouth and lifted his chin. Lucilla leaned forward and, as gently as she could, pinched his skin
between her teeth. He didn’t move. She put her hand on his shoulder, to steady herself, but her fingers must have curled in too hard, because Ashby shuddered beneath her touch. “Harder,” he said.

Lucilla drew back and licked her lips. She could taste him. His eyes looked huge in the dim light, and she could feel a flush building in her cheeks. She bit the rigid cord where neck met shoulder and slowly, slowly increased the pressure. It reminded her too much of sex. Pascal had liked it when she bit his neck. She liked it, too. Ashby tasted…Did it have to do with him being a werewolf? She wanted to lick Ashby’s skin and imprint him on her taste buds. She wanted to bite him more softly, and then suck at his flesh. Ashby moaned.

Lucilla jerked back. If she’d hurt him, it was his own fault, but she didn’t want to continue hurting him. She tried to step away and Ashby caught her around the waist. “Stop!” she commanded.

He froze.

She laid one hand flat on his chest. His heart raced, and his breath caught. Suspicion blossomed. “You enjoyed that,” she said.

Ashby grinned slowly. “I didn’t say I
wouldn’t
.”

Lucilla pulled out of his grip and stepped back. “You cad! You lied to me!”

“I did not!” He was laughing now.

“
Dominance ritual.
What complete and utter tosh. You were trying to seduce me!”

“You don’t like being seduced? I like it. I wish you’d do it again.”

“Wolves don’t really do those things,” Lucilla said.

“They do!” Ashby looked at her hopefully, then sighed and
buttoned up his collar again. “It’s true that they’re very hierarchical. It’s only that the hierarchy changes at need.” He paused. “For me, it’s important that you were willing to do that. I’m more than willing to do your bidding.” The tone of his voice made it clear what sort of bidding he would like.