the towel over that arm, concealing it. He rummaged in the rucksack and produced a shaving kit. “That was from a disagreement earlier this morning. It’s a small price to pay for having later punched a rude Polizist in a tender place. You may borrow my soap. We must share the towel.”
“Have you cleaned the wound?” she pressed. “I am trained as a nurse.” At his incredulous look, she added, “One must earn one’s living somehow.”
Fournier shook his head. “You study chemistry at the Institute and go home to wipe runny noses.”
“There aren’t so many places that will hire a woman chemist,” Lucilla said sharply. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, France being full of them. Or no, I’m sorry—those women are cooks, aren’t they?”
Fournier snatched away the towel and held out his arm to her. Deciding to accept this as a peace offering, Lucilla extracted his cuff link and carefully folded up his sleeve, revealing a strong, flat wrist that appeared and felt sound except for bruising. That would be painful enough, and likely worse tomorrow. She could not push the sleeve above his elbow, but the rip helped her to expose a long, bloody scrape, deep enough to hold street grit. The dirt on his jacket sleeve, she realized, had actually been blood. He must have hit the ground forcefully to rip through a layer of tweed as well as his shirt. Or had there been a knife involved? He hissed sharply when she probed the wound. “Your hands are not clean,” he snapped.
“They will be soon enough,” she remarked. “Come along to the bath. I’ll clean it for you properly. You’re lucky I carry a kit with me.”
Fournier smiled wryly. “If this is the first wound in a war, perhaps I can obtain compensation for your labors.”
“Monsieur Fournier—”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For rescuing me.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, not looking at her. He hurried down the corridor.
Lucilla hadn’t dealt with so simple an injury in a long time, as she specialized in nursing surgical recoveries. She’d forgotten how finicky a job it was to pick bits of grit from a wound. Tweezers helped. Her patient cursed freely each time she touched him, but seemed content to hold still when she pinned his hand beneath her arm. She could feel its warmth on the side of her breast, even through her clothing. The pressure felt good. She almost wished she could shift his hand a bit higher. She flicked her eyes to his. “This is not an invitation, young man.”
He sighed. “A great pity, Mademoiselle Daglish.” She could not tell if he was joking. She’d heard Frenchmen could be importunate. In her experience, all men could be importunate; but some could choose not to be. Emotion washed over her at this thought, almost lost as she concentrated on his wound. She realized she felt disappointed. A man bent on seduction would have been a welcome distraction just now.
After she’d finished her ministrations, she leaned against the wall outside the bathroom, plotting routes out of Germany. She did not have a good map in her head or in her bag. If she had to walk, she would be in sore trouble. Perhaps she could beg a ride from some other refugee. She need only reach a neutral country, such as Holland or Belgium. Would the market be open, to purchase supplies? Would she be able to take anything with her?
Much as she preferred to stand on her own feet, it would help to have a male companion such as Fournier on the journey. Any companion would be an advantage, but a man’s presence often rendered the woman with him negligible to the view of other men, hiding her in plain sight in the established role of wife or dependent relative. A woman alone drew the attention of predators, and she felt sure predators would take advantage of the current chaos. It might be a very good thing indeed that she and Fournier had encountered one another. She would broach the topic with him in the morning.
He might refuse. It made more sense for them to escape together, but perhaps he wouldn’t see that. Could she persuade him in some way? She thought of seduction and laughed into her hand, flushing up to her hairline. Before her fiancé’s betrayal, all those years ago, she had definitely enjoyed being seduced.
When it was her turn for the bath, she almost wept when fresh hot water poured from the tap. She didn’t dare soak too long—she feared encountering other guests, even with Fournier’s protection—but she relished every moment of what the previous day had been a utilitarian activity. She had no idea when she might have a bath again. She might find herself walking to France before she could catch a boat home.
Fournier had given her his silk dressing gown as well as a clean white shirt. The shirt fell past her knees and the dressing gown, redolent of shaving soap and male skin, dragged the floor. She belted it to ankle length and cautiously stepped into the corridor. Fournier waited for her, leaning against the wall and scribbling in a notebook with a stub of pencil. Muffled voices emerged from other rooms, but she saw no one else. Perhaps everyone had gone to ground. She felt huddled inside her own mind, too tired right now to think and plan any longer. She envied Fournier, able to work even in the midst of dangerous upheaval.
Her mind circled back to the sleeping arrangements. She could share. She’d shared a bed with her little brother, Crispin, when he’d been small. Fournier would be no different. He scarcely seemed aware of her as a woman. She discounted the moment when she’d been working on his arm. He’d only been joking with her.
When they reached the room, she bolted the door. Having already placed a dry dressing on Fournier’s arm, she put away her first-aid kit, then slipped out of her borrowed dressing gown. Its dubious protection would be too hot and awkward to wear for sleeping. The air from the window felt a little cooler than earlier; the voices on the street less frequent, but more strident. She shivered when one basso voice abruptly yelled invective, of which she caught only one word: coward.
Fournier straightened from tucking away his shaving kit. He seemed about to speak, then looked to the side. Lucilla waved to the bed. “You first. If we’re to share, you needn’t be overly concerned about modesty.”
Fournier nodded once and stripped down to his combinations, which covered him from biceps to knees. He then knelt and reached into his rucksack once again. He produced a pistol and loaded it, quickly and efficiently. Lucilla had always avoided seeing Crispin handle his sidearm. She had never been so close to a deadly weapon before. Her heart went into her throat as he handled the gun, expecting it to go off at any moment. Fournier set it carefully on the upended steamer trunk before climbing into bed. “You can shoot?” he asked. “You could shoot a man?”
Slowly, numbly, Lucilla shook her head.
“If you must, aim for his body. Hold the gun with two hands. Squeeze the trigger, do not yank. Be gentle with it, and be prepared for it to—” He jerked his hand. “Do not let it fly from your grip. You have six shots.”
Lucilla wasn’t sure what to say. At last, she settled for “Thank you.”
“Let’s hope it will be of no consequence,” Fournier said. He turned to face the wall and tugged the bedding over his shoulder. Lucilla loosed her hair, switched off the electric light and climbed into bed beside him. She could not lie flat without touching him. She did not mind the brush of his warmth against her hip and shoulder, for she lay awake, nerves thrumming, staring up at the ceiling in the faint light from the window. Gradually, the street noise quieted, and she could hear Fournier’s steady breathing and the ticking of his wristwatch. She closed her eyes, but her heart raced and her leg muscles twitched as if they wanted to run. Where they touched, the heat spread and sank through her skin. She shifted restlessly.
