said in a softer tone. “I won’t let you. I promise I’ll help you get through this, as best we can.”
“You?” She looked down at him disdainfully, pulling the petals from the wilted bud. “You’ll be off once you’re well. Don’t you want to go back to the war?” she challenged.
“Of course. At some point I’ll have to get back, but I can’t go like this.” He tapped his leg. “And I won’t leave you on your own. I owe that to Franz. We both do.” He reached up and took her fingers in his. She hesitated, then allowed him to turn her hand about.
“Do you play the piano?”
“Yes.” She sniffed. “How did you know?”
“Your hands remind me of someone I know who plays the piano, that’s all,” he said wistfully, remembering Flora playing at Strathaird, or on summer evenings in Limoges. It all seemed so long ago and so painfully nostalgic. “Will you play for me?”
She looked away. “Perhaps. Let’s go back. You must be tired and I need to milk the cow.” She pulled her hand away and got up, rubbing the grass from the back of her skirt.
“Cow?” Gavin exclaimed, following suit. “Where on earth did you find a cow?”
“It was standing in front of the house the morning after we arrived. I was frightened someone might reclaim it and find us, but they haven’t, so I’ve adopted her. I’ve called her Gretchen.”
“Then Gretchen it is. I’ll help you milk her. Maybe we can make butter.”
“Do you know how?” Greta looked at him doubtfully.
“Well, not exactly.” He grinned. “But I’ve seen Moira, our cook in Skye, do it dozens of times. Shouldn’t be too difficult,” he added nonchalantly, not about to be defeated. “Come on,” he stretched out his hand, determined to keep the smile on her face, “the only way we’ll know is if we try.”
“You’re being silly,” she demurred, then took his outstretched hand. Suddenly the destruction of the war seemed far away and the warm summer morning was well on its way as they walked slowly back toward the Schloss, both conscious of the new intimacy that reigned between them.
The days passed and they established a comfortable camaraderie. Summer ebbed gently into autumn and the leaves turned from green to red and gold, a beautiful mosaic among the dark pines. As Gavin’s leg improved, they took longer walks, although they never went too far, in case they should be seen by a chance wanderer.
After some unsuccessful experiments, they finally succeeded in making butter, and Gavin was amazed when Greta took him down into the huge, dark cellars of the pavilion, where Baron von Ritter had stocked enough food for an army. There were sausages and hams hanging on large iron hooks from the heavy oak beams; huge, airtight canisters filled with coarse brown flour, sugar, condiments and coffee; heavy stone jars of pickled gherkins and onions; and shelves filled with whole cheeses. But that was not all. Greta showed him a passage that she said went under the forest.
The wine cellar had also been magnificently stocked, probably before the kaiser’s visit, if the dates of the bottles were anything to judge by. Gavin, having spent part of every summer since early childhood at his uncle and aunt’s in Limoges, with occasional trips to nearby Bordeaux, knew good wine.
October came and the nights grew cold. The leaves turned from red and gold to bronze, and each evening they lit the huge fireplace in the study, the smallest room in the house and the easiest to heat. It was here and in the kitchen that Greta and he spent most of their time, talking about their lives, about Skye and Edinburgh, the MacLeod coal business, the summers in France where Gavin had learned how porcelain was made.
Greta listened, enthralled, for Gavin was a good storyteller, adding creative license when he felt it was required, in an effort to make her laugh and forget some of her sadness. Sometimes she would play the piano—which was surprisingly well tuned, for having spent so long silent—and Gavin thought of Flora.
Then one day he woke up and the forest had transformed into a magical, snow-covered fairyland that glistened in the morning sunlight. It made him realize just how long he’d been there and, as at the hospital, he was overwhelmed with guilt for allowing himself to fall into the comfortable rhythm with Greta, and making no attempt to get back to the front. Looking out the window, he realized that wouldn’t be possible now until spring. His leg still hurt and the limp remained, and in the back of his mind he wondered if it would ever heal. But he shunned that idea, convinced, with the invincibility of youth, that everything resolved itself at some point.
He got up and went to the window, feeling the cold, dry air mix with warm sun on his skin. Below, a trail of tiny hoofprints in the virgin snow told him deer were about. All at once he thought of Flora, ashamed that, of late, her image was somewhat hazy. He loved her, of course, but his desire and fondness for Greta was intensifying, particularly since two nights ago, when he’d heard her weeping in her room. He’d entered and sat next to her in the dark, stroking her hair. Then—he wasn’t quite sure how—she was in his arms, and their lips had met, hers closed until gently pried open, her surprise and innocent response forcing him to draw back. But he’d stayed, holding her in his arms, and there had been little sleep for him that night.
He dressed, knowing Greta would be waiting in the kitchen for them to have breakfast. They’d become like a couple, spending their days and much of their nights together. Gavin wondered with a shudder just how long he could stand the longing he felt when she laid her head against his chest, her eyes filled with love and hope. He had to keep strict tabs on himself, sure that she was unaware—as were most young girls—of the inevitable consequences of her actions. He loved her too, in his own way, but most of all he wanted her, and being so close day and night was becoming torture.
Later that day it snowed again and they sat in the study, Gavin trying to concentrate on his book, a treatise on the Franco-Prussian War, while Greta worked on a half-finished tapestry she’d found in an upstairs cupboard, oblivious of what her presence was doing to his frayed nerves. He snapped the book shut. “Damn the snow. We can’t even get out for a walk.”
“I like it. It’s so cozy being inside, watching it fall. Especially with you,” she murmured, blushing.
“I wish you’d stop that.” He got up and poked the fire. “I’ll be off as soon as the weather permits. My leg will be better by then. There’s nothing to stop me from trying to get back to my unit. I’ve stayed far too long as it is.”
“But I thought you were happy here,” she whispered, the tapestry abandoned, eyes brimming with hurt surprise.
“How can I be happy, Greta, when I should be doing my duty for my country, not lounging here doing nothing.” He poked the fire harder and a log fell sideways, sending sparks up the chimney. “I can’t spend the rest of my life rotting here. You know that.”
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, troubled.
“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
