Scent of Triumph (9 page)

Jon’s hair on his neck stood at the mention of Danielle. Sensing trouble, Jon started toward him. “Cam, old boy, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

Cameron shot him a wicked grin, then turned back to Max. “Jon and I been talkin’ about Danielle. Sure an’ she’s just the type o’ woman I’d like to know better.”

Jon stared at him in shocked silence.
How dare him!
He shot a look at Max, who seemed unruffled.
His gut tightened with anger, but Max remained composed.

Cameron held his drink high and the night wind whipped his black hair from his flushed face. “Here’s to the fair Danielle, let’s drink to her. To the most gorgeous woman, and the damned luckiest man aroun’.” He saluted Max and drank his entire whiskey, then crashed the glass against the brass railing. “I christen this ship
The Danielle
.”

Max lifted his glass. “To Danielle.”

Now there’s a gentleman
, Jon thought, though a pained expression spread across Max’s aristocratic face. Shame blazed on the back of Jon’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to Max. “Cam’s smashed. I didn’t realize he’d gotten so bloody sodded. He was fine an hour ago.”

“Jon, I heard that,” Cameron said. “C’mon, be a sport. The good Max doesn’t mind, d’you Max? Why, I bet he might even be willing to share the lil’ lady with a few good friends, for the right sort o’ trade, I mean.” He waved the whiskey bottle toward Max. “Marriage can get mighty dull, I can tell you that. One woman, day in, day out. Bor-rrr-ing.” He winked at Max. “I could introduce you to some starlets, then we could—”

“That’s quite enough,” Jon sputtered, incensed.
If she were mine, I would not stand idly while Cam sullied her reputation.
“You’re insulting Max.”

Cameron gave a snort. “C’mon, Max, you goin’ to keep her to yerself?”

Max stared straight ahead, obviously trying to ignore Cameron.

“That’s it.” Jon set his mouth in a grim line, his gut tightening another notch. He would not allow Cam to talk about Danielle like that. He stood a half a head taller than Cameron, and was well-built from years of sailing. He took advantage of his position, grabbing Cameron by the left arm. “Time to go, Cam. Max, take the bottle.”

Cameron lashed out at Jon with his right fist, but Jon ducked his punch with ease. Whiskey sloshed across Jon’s face from the open bottle before Max snatched it from Cameron.

“Come on, sailor.” Jon wiped alcohol from his stinging eyes, then deftly wrapped Cameron’s arms behind him and dragged him from the balcony. Though Cameron tried to give fight, Jon easily overcame his objections. He’d had plenty of experience quelling drunken sailors.

Downstairs, Abigail and Danielle could hear the scuffle. Minutes later, Max appeared at the living room entry, his face a deep crimson red.

Danielle glanced up. “Hello, darling. I hope everything is all right up there. Where are the others?”

“Cameron is just leaving. Under the weather, is the expression, I believe.”

Abigail seemed to understand. “So, one less for dinner. Would you care for a drink, Max? We have a nice sherry.”

“Have anything, ah, warmer?”

Abigail lifted a brow as she crossed to the bar. “Irish whiskey?”

Max grimaced. “Anything but that. Vodka?”

“Coming right up.”

* * *

With the help of the family’s broad-shouldered driver, Jon disposed of Cameron, sending him back to his hotel in their car. Still seething, Jon went to his room to straighten his dinner suit and splash water on his whiskeyed face.

He’d exercised all of his self-control to keep from decking Cameron. He still couldn’t understand why his sister adored the charming slosh.

Jon dried his face and flung the towel in the bathroom corner. What Cameron had said about Danielle really rattled him, and more than it should have.

“Damn him.” He banged his fists on the porcelain sink, grimacing. Jon was accustomed to crude language among the seafaring men with whom he sailed. Not that Max couldn’t handle an idiot like Cameron. But in fact, Max had treated Cameron with incredible grace. Was it grace, or cowardice?
If she were my wife....

But she wasn’t. Jon thrust his anger aside. He ran his hands through his thick hair and combed it back into place.

He heard Abigail’s voice trilling up the staircase. “Jon, where are you? Dinner is ready to be served.”

He went downstairs, taking extra care to be perfectly cordial to Danielle. Abigail’s dinner parties go on, he thought, food shortages and Cameron Murphy be damned.

Over a delicious meal of pheasant that Jon had shot last season, Danielle asked Abigail about her work in Los Angeles.

Abigail’s face lit with animation. “Even though the United States is not at war, there is still much they can do for the effort through private assistance.”

Jon laughed, his eyes on Danielle. “Here she goes. You had to ask, didn’t you?” But he was proud of his sister’s work.

Abigail ignored him. “Through our international organization, aid is rendered to needy people everywhere, especially children, my main concern.” She leaned forward, her brown eyes dancing. “We are the hospitallers of the modern world. Why, did you know the Red Cross traces its roots to Byzantine battle fields, where volunteers aided fallen knights?”

Jon grinned, winked at his sister. “Sounds like your fundraising speech, sis. Although I must admit, you’re quite persuasive.”

Abigail cast a wistful smile toward Danielle. “I wish I could persuade Max and Danielle to move to Los Angeles.”

“Someday, perhaps.” Danielle traded a pensive look with Max and rested her hand on his. “But not without our family.”

Jon stared at Danielle’s graceful hand, and as he did he felt a sense of desire flame within him. He flexed his jaw and raised his wine goblet to Max. “Then here’s to your success, Max. I wish you and Danielle safe journeys.”

* * *

The port of Dover was grey with rain, damp and misty, just as the day they’d arrived in England, Danielle recalled. High above on a cliff loomed a castle, ominous in the gathering fog. She shrugged farther into her coat and checked in at the ferry terminal, one small battered suitcase in her hand, filled with cast-off clothes from Libby’s charity. Max took the suitcase from her, frowning. “You shouldn’t carry this.”

The clerk gave her a ticket. “I’ll take your suitcase, madam. The ferryboat boards in ten minutes.”

Danielle took the ticket and turned to Max.
So this is good-bye,
she thought. She blinked and fought the urge to break into a tearful farewell.

They walked to the passenger queue. Danielle framed Max’s lean face in her hands to memorize his features—his strong jaw, his aquiline nose, the eyes that could be so determined one moment, so loving the next. Despite their problems over the years, despite their current difficulties, she loved him so much.
And desperately feared for him
. Her throat tightened.
I must be strong for him.
“Promise you’ll be careful.” Her words felt thick on her tongue. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”

Max smiled down at her, his gentle eyes creasing at the corners. He slid his arms around her and she shivered in his embrace. “Don’t worry your pretty head about me.”

A small laugh slipped from her. “I always hated that expression.”

Max looked surprised, then distressed. “You never told me that.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said with a half-smile and a wave of her hand. “Nothing but my silly pride.”

“
All ashore that’s going ashore
.”

Max trailed a finger along her chin and heat gathered along her neck.

“I hope to see you before the baby is born, darling. Or at least, soon after. As soon as I can return to France.”

Danielle’s heart quickened.
Soon, everything will be fine
, she told herself, despite her gut feeling. She blinked up at Max, trying to brighten their good-bye. “Won’t Nicky be surprised to have a new little sister or brother to play with?”

“Or both,” he responded with a playful smile, and gently smoothed her hair from her forehead. “Could be twins.”

At that, she embraced him, deeply drinking in the velvety aroma of vanilla tobacco that cloaked his skin and clothes.
All I want is to hold him like this, forever, and our little Nicky.

A strange sense of foreboding came over her, but she pushed it aside. She lifted her face, and her lips met his with a kiss that resonated with unity and longing. She ran her hands over his clean-shaven face, his silken hair, his strong neck.

“I love you, my dearest,” he whispered, his voice husky. He pressed her head to his chest, and she could feel his heart beating wildly beneath his coat. “Always remember that. Be safe, and pray for me.”

“I will, my dear,” she choked out, her throat constricting. “I love you, too, Max, my darling Max.” She pulled away, her fingers sliding from his face to his woolen coat, then lingering on his warm hands, his slender fingers, his gold wedding band. He squeezed her hand, tightly, so tightly, and she saw him struggle with tears in his eyes.

Danielle turned from him to leave, her breath caught on a lump in her throat. She groped along the guardrail, the last to board, her sight obscured, and her face seared with tears she could no longer restrain. She brushed them away, anxious to appear strong for Max.

As the ferry eased from the harbor, she stood shivering by the rail, waving until her husband dimmed to a tiny speck on the dock.

Finally, Max disappeared from sight. Danielle gathered her woolen muffler higher around her ears. Her wedding ring caught in the wool and as she plucked threads from the setting, she recalled the day they sold her pearls to raise money for her passage. Max insisted she keep her wedding ring, the magnificent eleven-carat emerald and diamond ring that once belonged to his grandmother. “No matter what happens, never sell our ring,” he had made her promise again. A sob seized her chest as she thought of him and his dangerous mission, and yet, she longed to see their son, and Sofia, again, too.

She gazed ahead, her eyes transfixed on the ocean that stretched out before her. The English Channel was choppy. White caps rose in the distance, curling and beckoning like silent maidens of the sea, their crowns crashing in rolling rhythm. The scent of the sea filled her nostrils, reminding her of her last fateful voyage across the Atlantic, and the sight of the U-Boat lurking on the horizon. She steeled herself against the memory and pushed it from her mind, grasping the rail to steady her nerves.

Still, a sense of apprehension returned, finally engulfing her; she felt her eyes burn and mist. This time she let her tears fall freely into the English Channel, and the thought she had not allowed to enter her consciousness now formed into clear, terrifying words in her mind.
Will I ever see Max again?

Danielle’s parents and her brother, Jean-Claude, met her at the
Gare du Nord
train station in Paris in the family motor car.

As they drove, the weather seemed unseasonably warm to Danielle for mid-October. Sunlight danced on the river Seine, glancing off the gilded dome of Les Invalides. Danielle craned her neck to see the spires of Sainte-Chapelle reaching skyward above the Ile de la Cité. She never ceased to be amazed by the bustling verve of life that wove Paris together like a fine, rich tapestry.
My home,
she thought,
how I love it!

But today, there was something new in the air. She could smell the dread that permeated the city, sense the threat of war looming in the air like a great grey ghost, stretching its menacing fingers after the prized city.

When they arrived home, Jean-Claude carried her suitcase up the creaking mahogany staircase to her old bedroom. They entered the musty room and Danielle wrinkled her nose.

Jean-Claude closed the door. Toned and muscular, he lifted the suitcase to the top of an antique bombe dresser.

Danielle drew the velvet drapes and opened the window for fresh air. She sat in a stuffed chair, whose cheerful red print had faded in the years since she’d left.

“Well?” She studied Jean-Claude’s strong profile, his dark shaggy hair. He seemed worried. “Any news from your sources?”

“No, I’m sorry, nothing from Poland.”

“I see,” she murmured.

Jean-Claude strode across the room and knelt in front of her chair. “But that doesn’t mean Nicky and Sofia aren’t all right.”

Danielle swallowed, trying to calm her agitated stomach. “Is there anything we can do?”

Jean-Claude’s dark eyes held a faraway look. With his long agile fingers, he stroked his smooth chin. “Well,” he said slowly, “there is something. Would you be willing to help us with our cause?”

Danielle felt her heart quicken with curiosity. “What can I do?”

He began to tick off a list on his fingers. “First you’ll need to study maps, learn procedures, understand our coded vocabulary.”

Danielle laughed to mask her nerves. She hadn’t realized he was so involved with this underground group. “How will this help us find Nicky and Sofia?”

“I might have a plan.” Abruptly, Jean-Claude squeezed her hand so hard she squirmed. “But not another soul must know of this. Not even our family.”

“I understand, but this secrecy is almost maniacal.” In truth, his intensity scared her.
I don’t know this side of my brother
, she realized.
So much has changed here, even my family.

Jean-Claude released her, stood and strode to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob and glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll see, Danielle, soon enough.”

* * *

Later that week, Danielle realized Jean-Claude’s admonition was well founded. Terrifying tales from Germany about surveillance appeared in newspapers. Employees were informing on employers, neighbor on neighbor, rumors ran rampant. Who could one trust? The stories sickened Danielle, but once she swallowed her fear, a strange sense of calm filled her.

She was proud to be a modern woman. She wanted to find her family, but she also wanted to help alleviate suffering inflicted on others by the Nazis. She began her work in earnest with Jean-Claude.