He grins at me, taking both my hands in his. “I can’t wait to show you where I grew up and introduce you to everyone. My sister will fall in love with you the minute you open your mouth. She’s a sucker for all things French.”
I manage a smile, but there’s something niggling at the back of my brain, a talk we had once about his father, how he could be a hard man at times, with strong ideas about respectability and duty, and I can’t help wondering if those ideas extend to his son’s choice of a wife.
Anson frowns, trying to read my expression. “Please don’t be sad. I’ll be home before you know it, and then we can start a real life together. But until then, I’ll know you’re safe.”
“And what about you? You’ll still be here—with them.”
He cups my face, kissing me tenderly. “Nothing will keep me from getting home if I know you’re waiting for me.”
“But how are you managing this? It’s all we can do to get men over the border, let alone to America.”
“The Purcells have been navy men since the days of John Paul Jones—until me, that is. Anyway, I dropped dear Pater’s name and called in a few favors. I doubt he’ll be any too happy about it—he prefers to wield the power in the family—but that’s a fight for another day.”
“I’m afraid,” I say softly.
“I know. But you’re brave too.” He kisses me again, and I can taste my tears on his lips, bitterness and salt, and suddenly every moment, every touch, is precious. Because they’re all I will have to take with me when the sun comes up again.
He pulls away, holding me at arm’s length. “I should go. You need to pack a few things, bare-necessity stuff. One small case. And then you should try to sleep. I’ll be back before dawn.”
“What about you? You’re exhausted.”
“I’ll go back to the hospital, try to grab a few hours.”
I reach for his hand. “Stay with me. Please.”
“You know I can’t.” His voice is thick, his eyes churning like a hungry sea. “We’re not . . .” He swallows hard and tries to step away. “There are rules, Soline.”
I shake my head because suddenly it all seems absurd. Men are being shot in the street and butchered on battlefields, women and children packed into trains like cattle and shipped to death camps. But this—two people in love, spending what might be their last night together—is against the rules. I can’t make sense of it. And then I remember something I heard Lilou say to my mother the night she ran away to marry her Brit. I refuse to let someone else’s rules cheat me of my bit of joy.
I refuse too.
“I don’t care about the rules,” I murmur, pulling him back to me. “It’s our last night. Please don’t make me spend it alone.”
He says nothing as I lead him up the stairs. There’s a moment of hesitation when we reach the top. Whether his or mine, I can’t say, but it passes quickly and the decision is made, the point of denial behind us.
I feel shy suddenly and leave the light off. Until this moment, our rendezvous have consisted of brief, stolen moments, hurried embraces and feverish kisses. But tonight there’s no reason to hurry. I don’t know if I will be his first—I don’t want to know—but he will be mine.
I unbutton his shirt and push it back from his shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. I reach for his belt next, working with shaky fingers. He stands very still, his eyes on my face, and I wonder if he senses my nervousness. I’ve seen men without their clothes—I’ve bathed hundreds at the hospital—but I hadn’t been in love with any of them.
Finally, it’s Anson’s turn to undress me. I shiver as my blouse falls away, his fingertips like a whisper against my skin. There’s a kind of reverence in his voice as he murmurs my name, his eyes filled with such tenderness that my throat catches with an unexpected rush of tears.
Moments later, my clothes are on the floor and I’m standing there naked, chilly and trembling all over. I catch my reflection in the bureau mirror and wish I’d remembered to turn off the hall light too. I’ve lost weight since the war began and my body looks sharp in the glass, sinewy and pale, and I worry that I’m a disappointment. And then Anson is behind me, wrapping an arm about my waist, bending his mouth to the curve of my shoulder. I close my eyes, abandoning myself to the moment. I want only him. His breath. His hands. His skin.
He leads me to the bed, pulling me down with him onto the sheets. He smells of sweat and the strong carbolic soap they use at the hospital, earthy and astringent. Male. Our breaths mingle warm and wet as we find each other in the darkness, his hands insistent and everywhere, as if trying to map my body with his touch. And yet he’s in no hurry, content to savor the moment—to savor me—and I let him, lost in the bittersweet magic of these few brief hours before we must say goodbye.